From What I've Tasted of Desire
by estrafalaria103
Summary: Trying to ignore the Apocalypse, the brothers take a case in Paradise, MI. It's the perfect case -- easy research, blueberry pie, hot waitresses. . .until the ghost turns out to be a Hindu vampire, Cas struggles with Famine's curse, and Death visits.
1. Chapter 1

"Well, look on the bright side, Sammy. Two Horsemen down, two to go!"

Sam glared up at his brother, somewhat murderously. He was pale a gaunt – the hours in the safe room had taken their toll. Bobby looked likewise exhausted, but the indefatigable Dean was clomping around, arms spread wide, and a bright smile on his face.

"Dean. . ." Sam sighed, rubbed at his face. Everything was still a jumble. He tried to find that niggle in the middle of his belly, the yearning for more demon blood. But his gut was just. . .empty. As abruptly as the thirst had come, it had disappeared. "Don't you think that we should talk about this?"

His brother screwed up his face, looking for all the world like he smelled something horrible. "Seriously, Sam? You really think I want to _talk_?"

"Some things never change," Bobby growled.

"You know what I do want?" Dean asked, rubbing his hands briskly together. "I want a hunt. A good one. You know, shovels, cemetaries, salt and fire. Get us back on our feet."

"Is he still avoiding it?"

Sam's voice momentarily clenched. He caught his breath, exhaled, drew breath again. Dean's angel still had an irritating habit of just popping up places, and while normally it unnerved Dean more than anyone else, this time he had popped up frighteningly close to Sam's face.

"Yup," Bobby said. Sam cleared his throat, uncomfortable. Castiel turned around, observed that he was nearly sitting on the younger Winchester, and without even an apology moved aside. Sam's lips twitched as he fought a smile. Like Bobby had just said. Some things never changed.

"Avoiding it?" Dean glanced back and forth between Bobby and Castiel. "Avoid what?"

"The Apocalypse," Castiel said. He was staring at Dean again, and yet again, Dean was staring back. These long gazes that they shared bugged Sam. More than bugged him. They were just irritating. The two of them staring like that. Sam didn't know what the angel was looking for when they engaged in staring contests, but he was pretty sure that the strangeness of it just banished all thought from his rather obtuse brother's head. Especially since Dean never had anything to say after the angel, inevitably, looked away.

"I'm not avoiding the Apocalypse," Dean said finally, when Castiel had shifted his body a little to look at Bobby, instead. "I'm not! I just don't see the point in running around looking for it. I mean . . .as long as Sam and I keep saying no, we're stopping it, right?"

Sam really didn't like his brothers' new mode of operation. Ever since his little angel-inducted foray into the future, and even more so since Ellen and Jo's deaths, Dean seemed to have decided that the best way to destroy Lucifer was. . .to ignore him. As far as Sam could tell, that plan had done absolutely nothing to weaken the devil. If anything, the appearance of Famine should have been a sign that Lucifer was growing stronger, not weaker.

"That's not exactly how it works," Castiel said.

"Anyway," Dean seemed determined now to ignore not only Michael, but _all_ angels, as he scooted around Castiel, placing himself directly in Sam's line of sight. "While you were locked up in the panic room, screaming out for Ruby. . ."

Sam blushed. "I was not," he said. He was pretty sure he hadn't called out anyone's name, demon or otherwise.

"Sure you were," Dean said, grinning even wider now. "Oh, Ruby, please, I need you so bad." Sam was getting ready to punch his brother in the face. "Oh, Ruby, yes, you know what I like."

On the one hand, hearing his brother tease him was good. It was the ultimate forgiveness. On the other hand, the whole situation was intensely humiliating.

"Okay, fine," he said. "what's your point, Dean?"

"Right," Dean coughed. Dammit, Sam thought, would he ever stop smiling like that? "While you were locked up, Bobby and I found ourselves a case. Sounds pretty open and shut. . .people dying, all in the area of this cemetery."

He pulled a map out of his back pocket, waved it enticingly in front of Sam's face. "Salt and burn," he said in a sing-song voice.

"Doesn't that sound kind of boring?" Sam asked. "I mean, after everything else that's been going on? Killing Famine, meeting Cupid. . ."

That was finally enough to wipe the grin off Dean's face, replaced immediately with a shudder. "Dude. Don't remind me."

Sam grabbed the map, opened it up to take a look. One eyebrow quirked. "Paradise, Michigan?" he asked. Dean coughed.

"Yeah. . .uh, ironic name, huh?"

Over Dean's shoulder, Castiel and Bobby exchanged what Sam was almost certain was an amused glance. Had it been anyone but the angel, he would have been sure. As it was, he was mildly hurt. The angel could engage in staring matches with Dean, apparently had inside jokes with Dean, and still barely spoke to him.

"Fine," Sam stood up, ignored the brief rush of dizziness that accompanied the motion. He'd been out too long, obviously. Though the hours blurred together, he knew that he'd been in the panic room for almost a week this time. He'd seen the calender, strewn almost haphazardly across the messy worktable in Bobby's den. No wonder Dean was practically skipping around the room. He got stir crazy after a day in a motel. Sam could barely imagine the impatience he must have suffered, a straight week cooped up at Bobby's. "Let's go."

Castiel nodded and stepped forward, two fingers raised on each hand. Sam took an involuntary step backwards, and Dean practically ran to the opposite side of the room, his hands raised. "Whoa, no no no!" Dean said. "No! This isn't time travel, this is space. Back off, Wonder Fingers, we're going the old-fashioned way."

Sam wasn't a fan of the angel transport himself – it may him woozy and mildly sick – but neither was he looking forward to a twenty-four hour ride in the Impala. Dean might complain about the burritos, but in Sam's opinion he had way more to bitch about on their frequent road trips – onions, greasy burgers, loud mullet rock, and the irritating clunking noises that the Impala made among them.

"Dean, come on. . ." he knew he was whining, but didn't really care. He knew he looked pathetic after his week downstairs, and decided to use that fully to his advantage. Because as much as he knew his brother needed the call-back to their old, relatively stress-free hunting days, he also knew that he would never survive a twenty-four hour race across the country. "Please?"

Dean still looked determinedly against the idea. Sam sighed. Time to play dirty. "I guess we could always fly. . ."


	2. Chapter 2

It was evident that the founders of Paradise had a very ironic sense of humor. Sam shuddered off the after-effects of Castiel's space-jump, and looked around. Paradise was small. . .about the smallest town that they'd ever gone to. As usual, Castiel had plopped them straight down in the middle of the town proper. Which in Paradise, appeared to amount to a hardware store, a chamber of commerce, a fishing shop, and a bed and breakfast.

"Well," Sam said, trying to find a bright side. "At least it should be easy to find the cemetery."

"Oh, you don't want to go to the cemetery," an old man said. He was wearing what appeared to be a pair of long johns and a flannel shirt. Sam wasn't sure when long johns had become acceptable to wear in public. "There's been a whole slew of deaths over there."

"Um, yeah," Dean turned around, reached into his pocket. "That's exactly why we want to go there. We're investigating it." He flipped open a wallet. The old man squinted, frowned, and looked at them suspiciously.

"Why would the CIA be interested in two suicides in Paradise?" he asked.

"Um. . ." Dean's mouth was opening and closing, making him look for all the world like a fish.

"Wild Blueberry Festival," Castiel said abruptly, apropos of. . .nothing. Sam followed the angel's gaze, and saw the large sign which was held up by the two signposts of what appeared to be the town cemetery. Huh.

"Yup, comes up in two weeks," the old man said, his attention abruptly diverted. "Best blue berries in all of the U.P, don't you know."

"Sweet Jesus," Dean said, rubbing his hands together. "Blueberry pie. . .this place _is_ just about Paradise."

The old man seemed completely mollified by this point, and smiled benignly at them. "Well, you're too early for Halloween," he said. "And I wouldn't go around flashing fake badges at the authorities around here. . .Deputy Steve's a real hardass, if'n you know what I mean. But if you're looking for pie, Madge's has the best pie north of the bridge."

Sam didn't bother to ask where the bridge was. He glanced at the cemetery again, and figured it couldn't be the one they were looking for. Surely the old man would have mentioned it. Besides, on second glance it seemed like just a family plot, or maybe a military one, in a town this side. There couldn't have been more than a dozen stones in it.

"That sounds great," Dean said enthusiastically. "Could you point us toward Madges?"

"Dean," Castiel said disapprovingly. "Is this really the best time to be satiating your appetite?"

"Hey, I'm not the one who ate a hundred pounds of hamburger," Dean said. He glanced at Sam, but didn't say anything. Sam was very thankful for that. The old man pointed them down the street, told them to turn left, and admonished them once again for their "antiquated badges."

It only took a few minutes to find the bright yellow building with a buttercup sign reading _Madges_. Dean licked his lips, rubbed his hands together again, and entered the room.

It was one of those old-fashioned places where a small bell rang, announcing newcomers. There was one long counter, where two old men sat (were _all_ men in Paradise old, Sam wondered and four small booths pushed up against windows. There were flowerpots on the center of each table. Only one was occupied, by a middle-aged couple and a toddler, who seemed intent on eating the petals of their booth's flower.

"Just sit anywhere," the voice came from behind the counter, where a woman with a tight perm was pouring out coffee for one of the older gentlemen. "Jenine will be right with you."

"Sure!" Dean said brightly, before plopping into the first booth he saw. Sam and Castiel joined him a moment later.

"Really, Dean?" Sam pouted. "A celebratory meal before we've even started the case?"

"Oh, come on," Dean said. "Your gut gets carved out by those angel blinks. We need to refortify. Besides, should be an easy case. Just got to find out who could be a vengeful spirit, and then axe them. And you heard the guy. . .they have a freakin' blueberry festival here!"

Castiel sighed. "Well. It appears safe here. If you don't mind. . ."

Dean waved his hand. "Go for it, Cas. Continue your search for the erst-while Father. We'll give you a call if we need any help. Which we won't. Because it's an easy case."

"Bye, Castiel," Sam said.

"Good-bye, Dean." With a fluttering of wings, the angel was abruptly gone.

"That was rude," Sam said. Dean glanced at him.

"Dude," he said. "Are you pouting because the angel didn't say good-bye to you? You know the guy has the social appropriateness of an eight year old girl."

Sam didn't say anything in response. Just stared back out the window. He supposed that Paradise was rather pretty, with the towering pine trees. If, you know, a person liked that kind of thing.

"Listen," Dean said, readjusting his jacket. "I gotta hit the head. You know what to order, if the waitress beats me back?"

"Pie."

"_Blueberry_ pie," Dean corrected, and then was off.

As if in perfect timing, a pink skirt appeared in Sam's peripheral vision. He tunred around a bit, to see a young, pretty girl standing in front of him. Her brown hair was pulled back, lightly curled. She wore a pair of glasses on her nose.

"Hi, welcome to Madge's," she said. "How can I help you?"

"Two coffees," Sam said. "And a slice of pie."

"Blueberry, of course," she said, not even bothering to write the order down.

"Of course," Sam said with a smile.

She turned around briskly, said "pie" to the woman behind the counter, and spun around again, this time with two empty mugs in one hand, and a steaming coffee pot in the other.

"Wow," Sam said. "Talk about service."

"Well, it doesn't take a brain surgeon," she said chipperly, filled both cups. "You sure you don't want anything else? Oh!" as if she'd only just then thought of it. "Would you like two forks?"

"What? Why. . .no!" Sam shook his head. "No, just the one, thanks."

"It's nothing big," the girl said. "Okay, admittedly, most people saw two men they'd shit their pants, but really, they could stand the excitement."

"We're just brothers," Sam said firmly.

"You know, The Times ran an article about that a few years ago," she said, standing, one hand on a hip.

"On brothers?" Sam asked.

"No, on incest," she said. "it was interesting."

"Well, we're just regular brothers," Sam assured her, not sure why this was coming out so complicated. "As in. . .non-incestuous brothers."

"Okay," she said. "The lady doth protest too much, methinks."

"Hamlet?" Sam asked. The girl smiled. He smiled in response. "Actually, I think that's the first time I've heard it correctly quoted."

"It was always one of my favorites," the girl said. She stuck out one hand, no longer burdened by coffee cups. "I'm Jenine, by the way. Welcome to Paradise."

"Sam," he said by way of response. "Thanks. We just got here."

Without asking for an invitation, the girl slid in to the empty booth across from Sam. She really was beautiful, he thought. Apparently smart, too, if a bit eccentric. "You don't exactly seem like the normal people we get through here, if you don't mind my saying it," she said. "You're obviously not a family on a roadtrip, or hikers, or fishes."

"We're hunters, actually," Sam said. The girl nodded.

"Big game or small?

"Uh. . .big, usually," Sam said. The bathroom door opened, and Dean strode out. Jenine glanced at him, before turning to smile back at Sam.

"Well, it was very nice to meet you, Sam," she said, stepping out of the booth and gesturing for Dean to step in. Dean cocked one eyebrow at Sam before settling in. "Your pie will be right out," Jenine said, smiling warmly, before walking away.

Dean, devoid of any proprietary, as usual, watched as she walked away, before turning to Sam with a leer. "Nice," he said.

"Shut up." Sam buried his face in the hot coffee, fully aware that his face was painted a bright red.

"So. . ." Dean said. "Did you find out about—"

"No, Dean," Sam cut his brother off. His ears were still flaming.

"Did you"

A plate landed in front of Dean's nose, instantly distracting him. Sam glanced up, surprised, to see Jenine wink at him before walking off. Dean, meanwhile, was intent on the pie.

"Hot damn, Sam," he said, through the blueberry ooze slowly dripping out of his mouth. "Hot women, tasty pie, easy case. . .this place really is Paradise!"


	3. Chapter 3

Dean was irritated. He'd assumed that it would be an easy case, but the coroner's office had told them that nobody had died in the last two years, except for the two suicides the week ago. According to Sam, the closest thing to a violent death in the town _ever_ had happened twenty-two years ago, when some farmer named Brett Michaelson had run himself over with his own tractor.

"Although, this is interesting," Sam said, his nose practically buried into his faithful laptop. "Apparently, most of the inhabitants here came from this other town, Shelton. And, get this, there have been no less than 71 reports of hauntings in what remains of Shelton."

"So?" Dean asked. "That still doesn't tell us why the cemetery _here_ is being haunted."

"Well, maybe they moved some of the bodies," Sam said. "Or maybe they really are just suicides. Maybe there's no case."

Dean shook his head. "Sam, how many people do you know who kill themselves by suffocation next to a cemetery?"

"Uh. . ."

"Exactly. There's a case."

Dean grabbed his jacket and wallet, shoved a gun down the back of his pants, and headed toward the door. "Come on,"

"Where are you going?" Sam asked, finally bothering to look up from his damn computer.

"Correction," Dean said. "We. There might not have been anyone who died recently, but your girlfriend was in a coma at the same time as the deaths."

"So?" Sam asked.

"So," Dean said. "You see a connection between this and a ghost town, I see a connection between deaths and comas. You're going to pay a housecall."

"And what about you?" Sam asked, thankfully not arguing, but just pulling his jacket on and dutifully turning off the computer. Dean grinned.

"I'm hitting the bar."

* * * * *

Sam had starred at him with a long, forlorn puppy dog gaze as the Impala had pulled away from the old, Victorian style house. Dean just grinned and waved. The doctor had the hospital had been pretty sure that Jenine would be spending the nights in. She'd never been a partier before she'd been sick, and it wasn't likely that after a day of work she'd be going anywhere, he'd said. Besides, she usually stayed in to take care of her elderly grandmother.

Dean was plenty happy not to have to deal with _that_. Besides, Sammy had always done well with the elderly. He couldn't completely hide his smirk.

There was only one bar in the town – well, two, but one had a dead deer hanging over the entrance, and that was too much even for him. It looked exactly the way a bar in northern Michigan should look. . .like it had emigrated from Europe, without having taken any money with it. Inside it was a little smoky – clearly the anti-smoking ban hadn't traveled north from the capital yet. There were a number of good old boys, scattered around the room, and one hot looking piece of ass leaning up against the bar.

"Hey," Dean nodded toward the bartender. "Whatever's on tap."

The bartender nodded, and almost instantly handing him a foaming pint. Dean grinned, and look a long drink before turning to look at the hottie next to him.

"Paradise, indeed," he said. She turned to smile at him, and he nearly choked on the beer.

"Hi," she said, winking. "I'm Jenine."

"You. . .uh. . .you work at Madge's," Dean said. "Saw you there today."

"Well, girl's got to earn a living somehow," she said, leaning her arms back against the bar, giving him a great look at some very great cleavage. She hadn't been much to look at in the restaurant, not in the polyester pink skirt, with the hair tied back like a nun and those damn glasses. But here. . .Dean let out a low whistle. Her hair was tousled and sexy, her eyes dark and seductive. And damn, every bit of clothing hugged her body just right.

"The, uh, the doctor thought you'd be home," Dean said, suddenly remembering poor Sammy, who had to be either entertaining some old broad, or stomping back to the motel alone.

"Oh?" the girl raised one eyebrow. "Stalking me, now, are you?"

"No?"

"Too bad," she sidled up right next to him, pressing tightly against his body, one hand weaving around to the back. "I like a forceful man."

Dean set his drink down on the bar, looked down at her. "Oh, I can be forceful," he said. She smiled, licked her lips, until a look of surprise took over her face.

"Is that a gun, or are you just happy to see me?"

"Um. . .both," Dean said, stepping back a second and checking his weapon. Jenine just continued to look at him, a small smile on her face. He cleared his throat. "it's for. . ."

"Honey, you're in the UP, don't worry about it," she said. "Half the man here are packing. Half the women, too."

He glanced around. There was only one other woman in the room, and she looked about sixty-five. "Auntie Em over there?" he asked. She shook her head, lifted her own shirt a bit, showing off a butterfly tattoo and the tiniest gun he'd ever seen.

"What the fuck is that?" he asked.

"Kahr TP9," she said. "It's tiny but it still only takes one bullet to put a man down."

"No, I can. . .I can respect that," Dean said. He wasn't going to tell her that his fingers were itching to touch the thing. It was so tiny! He could fit one into his boot! He could have a knife in one, and a gun in the other.

"Look," she said, putting a hand on his chest. "Let's face the facts. You're hot. I'm hot. And there is _nobody_ else hot in here tonight." A glance around the bar confirmed what she'd said.

"So. . .you're saying. . ."

"I'm saying that my car is parked out back."

"Are you trying to take me home?" Dean asked, impressed. Girls had picked him up plenty of times. . .after he'd made sure that it was what he wanted. But this girl moved faster than anything he'd ever met.

"I said my car is parked out back," she said, a little frown now. "I didn't say anything about taking you home."

Dean considered. He wasn't getting any younger, and he had to admit that doing the nasty in the back of some chick's Prius didn't exactly fascinate him. Then again. . .he would have to be dropping by to pick Prissypants Sam up soon anyway. So he took Jenine's hand and let her lead him out the back. He scanned the back lot for a moment, but there were only three cars parked back there. Two beat-up pickups and a '57 Thunderbird.

"Where. . ."

"Right here," she said, running a hand lovingly over the car's hood. "This is my baby."

"Hot damn," Dean said, a smile slowly crawling over his face. He looked up at the sky, lifted his arms in triumph. "I love Paradise!"

* * * * *

Dean was still feeling intensely. . .happy. . .when he pulled up in front of the crumbling Victorian again. He was not overly surprised to see Sam sitting out at the mailbox, legs crossed like a kid in kindergarten.

"Hey, Sammy!" Dean said, leaning across the passenger seat and magnanimously opening the door for his younger brother. "How's it going?"

"She wasn't there," Sam pouted as he climbed into the car. "Her grandma said we just missed her."

"Huh," Dean said, shifting a little uncomfortably. He felt a rush of guilt. Just a small rush, though, because really? A girl who drove a classic car, packed a weapon, and dressed like a hooker wasn't the right type of girl for his brother, anyway.

"Anyway, her grandma _did_ have some more information on the cemetery."

Dean glanced over at his baby brother. "Wow, Sammy, you really do have a way with the old geezer ladies!"

Death glance. Wrong move.

"Anyway," Sam huffed, looking out the window again. "Turns out that there was one another death that we missed. It wasn't considered a violent death, but it turns out that Jenine's mother died. And get this. . .she died _in _the cemetery, of an asthma attack."

"Huh," Dean pursed his lips. It made sense. Fit the two recent deaths, as well. "Good work, Sammy," he said. "What do you say? Should we head out there now, or wait until the morning?"

"Might as well get it over with," Sam said. "It doesn't sound like she'll be too violent. Just take the next two rights and we should be there."

Dean's grin spread even wider. What an awesome night. He really loved Paradise.


	4. Chapter 4

**AN: So this is turning into a bit of a behemoth of a story. Just as a simple salt and burn for Dean is about to explode into something much more, so too, this story exploded from a five chapter ditty into. . .well, let's just say if you're following along, you'll be along for a while.**

**On that note: Seriously? Three chapters and not a single review? Show a little love, here, peeps!**

**Anyway, enjoy!**

Sam had gone to Stanford. He'd gotten a 174 on his LSATs. He was far from dumb. He was very well aware that his brother was buzzed, and jumped up from sex. He just didn't feel like mentioning anything about it. So he sat and fumed while Dean pulled in to the cemetery.

It was a small cemetery, but infinitely larger than the miniscule plot they'd found just outside of the town center. Sam grabbed the bags of salt, while Dean carried the saw-off and the shovels.

"Name?" Dean grunted.

"Cassandra Shire," Sam said. He shone the flashlight around, looking for a gravestone with the same name.

"Easy," Dean said, nudging a stone with his toe. "Right here."

It took less than an hour to dig out the shallow grave, salt the bones, and set fire to them. A little longer to cover everything up, and then they were back in the hotel room.

"I get first shower," Sam said, not caring that after his. . .exertions. . .Dean was probably more in need of one. Sam had had a horrible night, between romancing the old woman and digging up bones. Dean, for some reason, still enjoyed the gross graveyard shifts, but Sam had never been a fan. He liked hunting. . .or he was learning, to anyway. He loved saving people. But there was something less gratifying about rescuing people who weren't even victims yet.

He closed his eyes, enjoyed letting the warm water wash over his body. He was just washing out his hair when he heard a crash from the room, Dean's yelled expletive. He tensed, prepared to run out naked if necessary, but then he heard Castiel's low voice, and returned to washing.

He'd only been in the shower about ten minutes when the heat began disappearing. It was simply lukewarm when he finally turned it off, began toweling dry. Too bad for Dean. He could just deal with a cold shower. Sam considered for a moment, not wanting to dress in the humidity of the bathroom. Neither did he want to walk in front of an angel wearing only a towel. Eventually he settled for pulling on clean boxers and jeans before walking out.

Dean was lounging back against the headrest of one bed, waving the remote control around. Castiel was standing, rod straight as ever, his hands shoved deep in the trenchcoat pockets.

"Cas thinks there's something else going on here," Dean said in place of a greeting.

"Really?" Sam scrunched up his face. He couldn't think of anything they'd missed. It had all seemed. . .simple. "Why? What makes you think that?"

Castiel looked sideways, as though he were peering off into the distance, but the only thing to look at was a faded watercolor, one of the cheap paintings that motel rooms all seemed to favor. "There is. . .a sense of something," he said.

"More Apocalyptic bullcrap?" Dean asked, hopping off the bed. "Come on, Cas, I told you. We're doing enough just by saying no."

"This isn't the Apocalypse," Castiel sighed. "It is just. . ." he turned to look at Sam. "Promise me that you will call if anything. . .suspicious happens."

"Suspicious how?" Sam asked. Dean brushed past him toward the bathroom. Castiel just shook his head, looking worried.

"Promise."

"okay, sure, fine," Sam shrugged. Before the words were even out of his mouth, there was a fluttering of wings, and the angel was gone. Dean poked his head out of the bathroom.

"Come on, dude, you used up all the hot water!"

* * * * *

Sam couldn't believe it. He simply couldn't believe it. They'd destroyed the body. That had to mean they'd destroyed the ghost. And yet, there it was, plain as day. A third suicide. Half a mile from the cemetery. Strangulation.

"Huh," Dean shook his head. "We must have missed something."

"That's not possible," Sam shook his head. "We lit a freaking _bonfire_, Dean. Nothing survived that. Not a scrap of hair, nothing."

"Well, obviously something did," Dean said. He yawned, huge, lay back on the bed, closed his eyes. "We'll head over to Jenine's house. You can pump her grandma for information, see if there was anything left of the body that wasn't buried."

"Great," Sam crossed his arms tightly across his chest. "And what are you going do do?"

Silence. Heavy breathing. Sam nudged his brother's boot, which was grossly on top of the bed.

"Dean? What about you?"

He turned around. Unbelievable. Unbelievable. His brother was asleep. Not just mildly asleep, but full-blown, lightly snoring, dead to the world. Sam rolled his eyes. Normally he'd be happy to see Dean sleeping. His older brother had a habit of only catching four or five hours a night, if they were both lucky. Since coming back from hell it had been notably less. However, in the bright morning, in the middle of a case, was not when Sam wanted his brother catching up on the Zs. He aimed, and carefully threw the remote directly into the center of his brothers head.

"Ow! Sam! What the!" Dean sat upright immediately, glaring at Sam, and gingerly running a hand over his forehead. "What was that for?"

Sam turned around, facing the television. "And just what are you going to do, while I seduce grandma again?"

"I'll, uh, get us some breakfast from the diner," Dean said. Sam knew he was making the face. The one that Dean gleefully had named his "bitchface."

"I don't think so," Sam said, standing up. "Last night I did all the research. So fine. Today, _you_ get to research. Library, Dean."

"Fine," Dean rubbed at his face. He glanced up at his brother from beneath thick eyelashes. "Breakfast first?"

Sam had prepared for the inevitable. He tossed the Pop Tart into his brother's lap. "There you go. Car leaves in five."

He grabbed both duffel bags and began loading the car. From behind him he heard Dean yell "I have the keys!"

Sam would never admit it to Dean, but he was kind of glad the case wasn't over, yet. There was something charming about Paradise, the way that everyone waved hello, and every single man drove a pick-up. The coffee was good and strong, and he and Dean didn't get weird looks when a stranger caught a glimpse of the hardware in the back of the Impala. And, as much as he _really_ wouldn't admit it to Dean, he was hoping to see Jenine again. Which was exactly why he had packed Dean off to the library.

There was no bell on the house, just a simple knocker. Sam liked that, too. In small houses, he'd never seen the need for a doorbell, not really. He heard the footsteps on the other side. Small and swift. . .nothing like the dragging steps of Grandma Shire.

Sure enough, a pert face peeked out at him, that immediately burst into a broad smile.

"Sam!" Jenine threw the door wide open, and beckoned for him to enter. "Come on in! Grandma said that you visited her last night. That was sweet. . .and weird."

"Yeah, um. . .my brother and I are kind of. . .ghost researchers," Sam said. "We were looking at the town of Shelton."

"Don't waste your time," Jenine said. She began walking toward the rear of the house, gesturing for Sam to follow. "It's just another tourist trap. That's the main industry around here, so the locals will do anything they can to keep someone around another day."

"Oh," Sam nodded.

"Coffee?" Jenine asked, pouring herself a cup.

"Please,"

She handed his over, their hands briefly touching over the top. "I'm a fiend," Jenine said, conspiratorially. "I mean, I'm addicted to this stuff. Can't get enough."

"Yeah," Sam smiled. "I know what you mean."

Jenine leaned against the counter. She was still wearing pajamas, a Berkley t-shirt over a pair of shorts, and a long, breezy bathrobe. Not exactly what most women wanted to be seen in. Yet Jenine seemed completely comfortable.

"Um. . .Berkeley?" Sam asked. Jenine glanced down at the shirt, looked up again with a bright smile.

"Yeah," she said. "I graduated two years ago. I did some traveling for a while, before taking the LSATs."

"Law school?"

"Yeah. I'm thinking Columbia. Somewhere far away from Paradise, anyway." Jenine set her coffee cup down, and pulled the belt around her robe, drawing it closed over the t-shirt. "Anyway. Did you just come by to say hello, or. . ."

"Oh, yeah, actually I had a few more questions for your grandmother," Sam admitted, clumsily setting down the coffee cup. It splashed a little in his hurry, hot liquid burning his hand. "Is she around?"

"She's still asleep," Jenine said. "You're welcome to stay. I was just going to back some cookies. It's my day off."

"Yeah," Sam grinned. "That would be great."

* * * * *

Dean was bored. Not just kind of bored, but out of his mind, on the verge of flirting with the overweight, blue-haired librarian bored. And tired. He wasn't sure what sounded better, a beer, a burger, or a bed. He glanced down at his cell phone. Still no calls. What on earth had possessed him to let Sam have the Impala? Clearly, he'd been rendered momentarily insane.

He waved good-bye to Ms. Blue Hair and strolled outside, jamming his hands deep in his jacket pockets. It was August, but there was still a slight chill in the air. He wondered if Michigan was ever really warm. He rocked back on his heels, began to whistle. Checked the phone again.

"Come on, Sammy, how long can it take to interrogate an old woman?"

As if on cue, the phone buzzed, screen lighting up. It was at his ear in an instant.

"Yeah."

"Nothing, sorry, Dean," Sam's voice sounded a little breathless. "Everything was buried with her. I guess we'll just have to go back to the cemetery after dark, double check our work."

"Yeah, guess so. Listen, I'm on my way over to pick you up. "

"Sounds good."

Before Dean had the chance to pocket the phone it was ringing again. Cas.

"Hello?"

"Dean, where are you?"

"I'm still in Paradise. Outside the library. Why?"

Before the last syllable was out of his mouth he was staring into a pair of big, blue eyes.

"This is getting ridiculous."

"Sorry."

The angel backed off, and both men put away the phones.

"Cas, what's going on?" Dean frowned, noticed a small trickle of red at the corner of the angel's nose. "Uh. . .Cas, you got a little. . ." he rubbed his own nose. Confused, the angel brought his hand up, inspected the droplets of blood that came away.

"Interesting," he said.

"Are you okay?"

"Yes," the angel looked back up again. "Dean, I am more certain than ever. There is something here. . .some kind of. . .infection." The angel frowned, leaned forward, and sniffed him. Actually sniffed him! "I think you have been infected."

For a brief moment Dean felt panic. Then he got over it, laughed. "Come on, Cas. No way. I haven't been infected. Just chill off, okay. What is it, the search for God isn't going so well?"

"No," Cas said. "in fact, another sign has been wrought."

"Another sign?" Dean sighed. "I told you, Cas, I just want to"

"I know," Cas interrupted. "But Babylon has surfaced."

"Babylon?" Dean frowned. "What on earth is Babylon?"

Cas peered off into the distance. "I saw a woman seated on a scarlet beast that was covered with blasphemous names, with seven heads and ten horns. The woman was wearing purple and scarlet and adorned with gold, precious stones, and pearls. She held in her hand a gold cup that was filled with the abominable and sordid deeds of her harlotry. On her forehead was written a name, which is a mystery, "Babylon the great, the mother of harlots and of the abominations of the earth." "

"Uh-uh." Dean shook his head. "Are you quoting scripture again?"

"She is nearby," Cas said, something frantic in his voice. "Come. We must destroy this sickness in you, and then destroy her."

"Sure, sure," Dean waved his hand wearily. He was used to the angel getting all freaked out over little things. Or sometimes not so little things. Even so, he had never left mid-job, and he certainly wasn't going to do so right now. And besides. . .

"Hey. Didn't you say the Four Horsemen were a sign of the apocalypse? As in. . .all four of them make just one sign?"

Cas considered for a moment, cocked his head, stared at Dean. "Yes?"

"So there can't be another sign until that one's finished. Cool your jets, Heathrow, we're still missing a Horseman."

"Oh," Castiel considered that for a moment. "Yes. That is possible. But we are still neglecting your infection."

"For crying out loud, I'm not infected!" Dean threw his hands up in the air just as the Impala came around the bend. He didn't think he'd ever been so happy to see his little brother before.

"Very well," Cas said, his brow furrowed. "If you don't mind, I will stay with you a while yet."

"Fine, whatever," Dean hopped into the passenger seat. Even after three years sharing the driving with Sam, it still felt strange not to be behind the wheel. "Hey, Sammy," he looked over at his brother, suddenly remembering how very tired he was. "You think we could hit the hay for a few hours before burning this bitch?"


	5. Chapter 5

Sam didn't want to wake up. He really, really didn't want to wake up. So he pulled a pillow over his head, rolled to the side, and muttered "G'way, Dn."

When he was patiently prodded in the side again, he had to acknowledge the fact that it probably wasn't his asshole brother trying to wake him up. Dean was more liable to pull the pillow out from under his head, or whip all of the sheets and covers away. Whoever this was, was infinitely more patient, and infinitely more annoying.

"Fine, I'm up, I'm up!" Sam hurled his pillow across the room and turned to glare into the blue, blue eyes of their personal angel. "Good morning, Castiel," he ground out between clenched teeth.

"It is not morning, Samuel," Castiel said patiently, backing away from him. "It is eleven o'clock in the pm. You and Dean requested that I awaken you by this time."

"Right, yeah, I remember," Sam complained. He rolled over on his side, stared across the small chasm between beds toward his brother, still snoring peacefully across from him. "Why didn't you wake Dean up, first?"

Castiel shifted, almost as though he were uncomfortable. Sam looked at him carefully, noted for the first time the way that the trenchcoat was almost falling off his thin shoulders. Had the angel lost weight? _Could_ he lost weight?

"Dean appears to be. . .without clothing," Castiel said. Sam glanced over again. Sure enough, his brother's bare arm was flung across half-kicked off covers. His chest was similarly bare. Sam propped himself up on one arm. At the bottom of the bed, kicked into a small ball, were jeans, t-shirt, and, telling enough, a pair of boxers.

"Man," Sam complained. They'd had this talk too many times to count. Chicks = Commando. Brother = Boxers. Angels, he thought, had equaled all-out dressed. Apparently, in his exhaustion, his brother had forgotten.

"Fine, I'll wake him up." By the time Sam had finished rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, the angel had disappeared. He rolled over to his side, picked up the pillow that he had pitched, and proceeded to pummel his brother with it.

"Stop, Sam," Dean complained. He covered his head with his own pillow, burrowed deeper into the bed. "Trying to sleep here."

"Wake up," Sam said. "We've got a job to do. Your job, if you could wake up enough to remember that!"

"I'm up, fine, I'm up." Dean flung off the covers glanced down for a minute and groaned.

"I thought brothers equals boxers," Sam said, while he struggled into a shirt that appeared to have shrunk overnight.

"Gimme back my shirt," Dean growled. Sam glanced at the label. Oh. That was they it seemed to have shrunk.

Eventually the two managed to rediscover their own clothes, and clomped out to the Impala. Dean kept yawning, big, wide, gaping yawns accompanied by sound effects. Sam couldn't help but mimic his brother.

"Dude, stop," he finally snapped, just as they hopped into the car. "I'm tired enough without your stupid pseudo-yawns making it words."

"They're not pseudo," Dean snapped, turning on the ignition, and yawning yet again. "God, I'm _tired_."

"It's the infection," Castiel said from the back seat. Sam had sort of expected it, after the angels' abrupt departure in the motel room. Dean, however, clearly had not, and jerked at the sudden voice. "I see that you have managed to find appropriate accoutrements."

"Whatever that means," Dean growled, backing out of the lot and speeding toward the cemetery.

"What's going on, Castiel?" Sam asked, trying to keep his voice pleasant. "This isn't exactly the kind of hunt that you usually help out on."

"Oh no," Castiel said. His voice was low and gravelly, but that was normal. The note of alarm in it, however, was not. "You have been infected as well."

"Infected by what?" Sam glanced in bewilderment at his brother. A muscle in Dean's cheek jumped, the only sign that he was reacting to the angel's statement at all.

"Nothing," Dean said tightly. "Cas has just gone a little angel-crazy, that's all."

Castiel, meanwhile, made a strange little noise in the back of his throat and resumed looking out the window. Just as they were nearing the cemetery, he spoke again.

"Samuel. Are you suffering from any lingering. . .effects?"

"Effects of. . ." It took Sam a minute to understand what the angel was driving at, before he realized that he was referencing the demon blood. Of course. Out of respect, Sam seriously considered for a moment before shaking his head. "No, not really. I mean, no, I don't have any hankering for demon blood. Not right now, anyway."

This time Dean did swivel around in his seat. "Why? Cas? Is there something we need to know? Do we have to do something to help Sam?"

Castiel ignored him. "And Dean? You have been. . .eating regularly and fornicating?"

For some reason Dean started blushing at that, and abruptly coughed into his fist. Sam frowned. "Well, he had fried chicken for dinner, and another oversized slice of blueberry pie, so I'd say he's doing fine. Though he did skip breakfast. . ."

"I'm fine," Dean snapped. He glared back at the angel, and they began another of their staring matches. Sam sighed and took his hand off the car handle. It could be a while before they left.

"Besides, Cas," Dean said through clenched teeth. "Famine didn't affect me, remember."

"Right," Cas muttered.

"So. . .um. . .guys. . ." Sam muttered, a little uncomfortable. "Can we get to this burn, or what?"

"Yeah, Sam, let's go," Dean agreed. In unison, the two brothers left the car. They took their same positions as the previous night: Sam with the bags of salt, Dean with the gun and the shovels. When they turned around, however, they faced something _very_ different from the previous night.

"Sam!" Jenine said brightly. She was dressed in her waitressing outfit again, glasses included, though her hair was down, falling in riotous waves over her shoulders. "And Dean! What are you two doing here?"

"Um. . .hi, Jenine," Sam said, suddenly a little shy. He noticed that Dean was faling somewhat behind him, studiously looking everywhere _but_ at the girl. Weird, since Dean usually couldn't help but look at the girl. "Just. . .you know, more research for this ghost thing."

"Oh, makes sense," Jenine said with a bright smile. "Go to a graveyard. Okay."

"What about you?" he asked.

"I was just visiting my mom," she said. "Strangest thing, though. It looks almost like. . .okay, I know this sounds crazy, but. . .it looks like somebody dug up her grave." She glanced over at Dean, who was now trying, unsuccessfully, to hide the shovels behind his back. "Dean," she said, her voice suddenly becoming lower, and quite dangerous. "What are you doing with those?"

"These?" Dean held them out now, his eyes wide. "Oh, Sam and I just found them. I was going to. . .um. . .just put them back in the car. Bring them in to town tomorrow. See if somebody . . .um. . left them."

"Really?" Jenine stared at him. "Well. I was just heading back to my car. Why don't I walk back with you, while Sam does his research."

"Sure. . ." Dean said. He shrugged his shoulders toward Sam, and once again Sam really wished that he'd kept his telepathic abilities. He had absolutely _no_ idea what Dean was trying to say with that shrug. As soon as his brother turned and started walking off, Jenine headed over to him.

"Sam," she said, putting a gentle hand on his arm. "I trust you. If you say you just found those shovels, I believe you." She stood on tiptoes, pressed a kiss to his cheek. "I have a really good time this afternoon," she said. "Call me."

And then she hurried off after Dean, who, Sam had the distinct impression, she did not trust quite as much. Unfortunately that also meant that the shovels were leaving. It was going to be pretty difficult to disinter a body without a shovel.

Still, not quite sure what else he was supposed to do, Sam walked over to the grave, dirt still mushy and overturned from the previous night. He was sure that Dean would be back relatively soon. As good as his brother was at picking girls up, he was even better at sending them packing. Which, when Sam thought about it for a minute, was kind of a depressing thought.

And what was that that his brother had said to Cas in the car? Something about Famine having had no effect on him? But that wasn't right. . .was it? Surely there must have been something. . .it was hard to remember back to Famine, though. Everything had twisted and made confusing by the demon blood. He sat down beside the gravestone, prepared to wait a few hours. Pulled out his cell phone, prepared to play a few of the cheesy games that came with the cheap piece of plastic.

He didn't have to wait long, as it turned out. About five minutes after sitting down he heard a long, high scream. He put the phone in his pocket and started running toward the sound. What he heard next turned his blood cold, and turned his run into a sprint.

It was Castiel's voice, pitched high with fear, screaming out his name.


	6. Chapter 6

**AN: Phew. Last frantic update. I tell you, this story has just grabbed hold and is not letting go. Updates will slow down from here on out, though. Looking at just one a day. I'll do my best to be regular! Coming soon: Seduction! Castiel's secret! Death! Demons! Meetings with priests! Heaven! Revelations! Babylon! Yes. . .this has become an epic. Sorry!**

Sam skidded to a halt, horrified at the sight in front of him. Jenine was just standing there, hands on her upper thighs, screaming. Castiel was crouched on the ground, one hand stretched out on Dean's chest, hollering Sam's name at the top of his lungs.

What was truly terrifying, however, was the fact that Castiel's hand wasn't moving. Dean wasn't breathing.

Sam skidding to a halt, threw himself to the ground, one hand instantly reaching for Dean's throat, the other over his mouth. He held his own breath, praying, praying. . .

There it was, faint, and dying, but a pulse. His other hand, however, remained dry and cool. No breath.

"He's not breathing," Castiel said, desperately. His eyes were suspiciously red-rimmed as they met Sam's. "He's not breathing."

"So fix him," Sam hissed. He was glad to notice that Jenine had stopped screaming. She was still just standing there, as though frozen in place.

"I. . .I cannot," Castiel said, ducking his head in apparent shame. Sam stared at him again. There was a thin trickle of blood trailing from one of the angel's nostrils. He had tried, Sam realized. Another aspect of his angelic abilities that he had lost, trying to help them. "Save him, Samuel," Castiel said, his voice breaking a little. "you must save him."

Sam nodded, dipped his head toward his brother's. Right hand on forehead, fingers pinching the nose shut, left hand tilting up the head. Still nothing. He took a deep breath, leaned down, and captured his brother's mouth in his own. One breath. Pause. Two breaths. He felt for a pulse. Still there. Felt for breath. Nothing.

One breath. Two breaths.

Nothing.

One breath. Two breaths.

Nothing.

"Oh my God," Jenine. "What happened? Why isn't he breathing?"

"SHUT UP BITCH!" Castiel.

One breath. Two breaths.

Nothing.

Come on, Dean, Sam thought, leaning down again. Come on. You need to breath again. You need to tell us what happened.

One breath. Two breaths.

It's not supposed to end like this. Not like this, of all things.

"Why isn't he getting better?"

"Move."

Castiel didn't wait for him to shift, just shoved with a strength Sam would never have expected in those thin arms, and took Sam's place. Sam inched forward. Castiel wasn't doing it right, not quite. He wasn't pinching the nose shut, wasn't coming up for breath, wasn't. . .

Oh, of course. An angel. Sam sighed, a little relieved. Castiel was breathing for his brother, pure and simple. It wasn't CPR, it was. . .a ventilator, of sorts. Sam felt again for the pulse, was relieved to find it steady, now that oxygen was pumping through him. It wasn't a solution, but it bought them time. He turned to Jenine.

"What happened?" he asked.

"I don't. . .I don't know," she said, a little weak. At least she wasn't fainting. She stared at him. "He was fine, really, and then I just touched his shoulder, to ask him about the shovels, and he just. . collapsed."

An inkling of an idea began to glimmer in the back of Sam's mind. It didn't make sense. . .not a bit of sense. . .but then again. He turned back, to the crumpled trenchcoat leaning over his brother. It couldn't hurt, though, could it?

Of course it could, the logical side of his brain insisted. If a touch from the girl could send him into respiratory distress, what might a second touch do? But he didn't see another choice, short of digging up a grave and burning what little remained by himself. Something which would take hours. Even an angel might tire in hours.

"Come here," he said, reaching out his hand. Jenine didn't move, though.

"I. . .I can't," she said. Now he was getting annoyed, because, really, what did she have to be so afraid of? Until, that is, he noticed the chalk lines beneath her feet. A devil's trap? The inkling grew a bit stronger, and he nudged it out with one foot.

"Come on," he said, but she shook her head again, stubbornly.

"I still can't," she said. "It's something else. . .something in the dirt itself."

So he grabbed a shovel, actually shoveled out around her. Castiel looked up, only once, crossly, and Sam shivered a little. He thought he actually saw lightning in those eyes. But then the limp body on the ground twitched, just the slightest bit, and Castiel bent down low again.

Jenine still seemed hesitant to step forward, so Sam grabbed her by the arm and actually yanked her forward. She screamed, once, as her body cleared the marks, then stood, trembling again.

"That _hurt_," she said. "Why did it hurt so much?"

Strange, Sam thought. At some point her hair had gone back into the neat ponytail.

"Here," he said, pointing toward his brother. "Touch him. Briefly. Just a graze.

"What?" she shook her head, eyes wide. "Why?"

"Do it," Sam said. She took a deep breath, nodded, knelt down, and touched Dean's hand.

Nothing happened. Jenine stood back up. "I'm sorry," she said. "I don't know what else. . ."

And then, abruptly, suddenly, Dean was hacking, big, painful sounding coughs, deep in his chest and exploding through his chest. Castiel fell back, landing unceremoniously on his butt. Dean was gasping now, one hand grasping at his throat, the other braced against the ground. His eyes were closed tightly, fighting whatever pain had seized him.

"Dean?" Sam and Castiel were both beside him in an instance. Dean just shook his head, kept coughing. Finally, his lips turning blue, the coughs relegating to shudders through his body, he took in one, long, shaky breath. Then another. Sam breathed out in relief, looked at Castiel over his brother's body. The angel, however, was looking with agonized eyes at Dean.

"What the hell. . ." Dean scratched out, his voice low. He was interrupted by another bout of coughing, that turned Sam's insides into knots. "was that?"

Castiel glanced over at Jenine for half a moment, his eyes wide. "I must leave," he said, and abruptly disappeared. Dean frowned, peered at the empty space that Cas had occupied just a moment ago.

"Thanks for the concern," Dean said. He put both hands on the cold dirt, and pushed himself up. Sam grabbed his arm, helped him to his feet. Dean shook his head, still overly pale. Jenine rushed forward, reached out one hand.

"NO!" Sam stood between her and his brother. She flinched back. "No," he said again, a more moderate voice this time. "Don't touch him. Just. . .don't."

"Sam?" Dean clutched at his shoulder, almost desperately. "Sammy? What's going on?"

"I don't know," Sam said. He pushed his brother toward the Impala. Dean tripped, once, steadied himself, and thankfully opened the passenger side door. The last thing that Sam needed at that moment was an argument with his brother about being in no shape to drive. He turned and looked at Jenine for a moment. She looked the same as she had earlier in the day. A little more scared, a bit more pale, but overall the same. Still. . .

"You'd better come with us," Sam said, biting his inner lip. It hurt a little. Jenine nodded, once shaking, and got into the back seat.


	7. Chapter 7

**WahWahWah. The plot thickens. So does Dean's chest!**

It was perhaps the most uncomfortable Sam had ever felt. Dean's breath kept hitching, as though he still wasn't quite breathing comfortably. Jenine was staying as far away as she could, one hand hovering over her heart. And Sam had his laptop out, desperately trying to find any clue. But no matter how many variations of "nice girl who touches people and they can't breathe" he typed into Google, he didn't find any results that made any sense.

"So let me get this straight," Dean said for about the dozenth time. "You kissed me."

"I didn't kiss you," Sam said. "I gave you mouth to mouth. It wasn't like I had a choice."

"Huh," Dean paused, reached into the duffel, and pulled out a gun. Mechanically, he started taking it apart. Sam recognized the signs. Dean wanted to talk. About something. And he was making himself as macho as possible in order to get through it in one piece.

"And then, uh. . ." Another chest-racking cough. "And then Cas made out with me."

"He gave you mouth-to mouth," Sam shrugged his shoulders. "Angel-style."

"Huh," Dean glanced over at Jenine, still standing in the shoulder. "Why didn't you get in on the action, dollface?"

"I think I'm kind of the one who put you there in the first place," Jenine said, glancing sideways at Sam. "Just not sure how, yet."

"Working on it," Sam said, trying to assure her. She smiled at him, gratefully.

"Huh." Dean ran a tongue around his teeth, pursed his lips, puffed them out, and returned to his gun. Another cough. "huh."

"Dean?" Sam paused his internet searching to look over at his brother. He really didn't like the sound of those deep, chest-rattling coughs. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," Dean nodded his head. "I'm just. . .tired. Got something stuck in my chest. I'll be fine."

"You don't think it was the kiss, do you?" Jenine spoke up again. "I mean. . .do you think I have the kiss of death?"

"Then why am I okay?" Sam asked at the same time that Dean said "what about last night?"

The two brothers stared at each other. Sam's mind was very, very carefully blank. Because it was absolutely not possible that he and his brother had. . .with the same girl. . .and. . .no, blankness was really better.

"Huh," Dean returned to his gun.

"Awkward," Jenine sang in a low voice. Dean stared at the computer. Much, much better than people really. Why had he left Stanford, again?

From outside there was the sound of wings unfolding, and the distinct sound of a wheelchair creaking its way forward, and then ramming into the steps leading up to their motel room. Dean reached the door first.

"Open up, ya idjits!"

"Bobby?" Dean flung the door open. Sure enough, before them was the familiar, grungy figure of Bobby, and just behind him the rumpled Castiel.

"Come to save your sorry asses. Like usual," Bobby frowned. "Just. . .help me get this god-darned chairs up there!"

Sam bent down to grab the front wheels, while Dean pushed from behind, and Bobby just crossed his arms across his chest and tried to look dignified. Castiel. . .offered absolutely no assistance.

"Thanks for the help, Cas," said Dean, muffling another cough with his sleeve.

"You sound. . .unwell," Castiel observed.

Sam was ushering Bobby over to the computer, while Jenine had unconsciously stuck her hand out in greeting. He shook his head at her. Chastised, she pulled the hand back.

"Probably better not to touch anyone right now," Sam said.

"Sorry," she said, chastised. She bit her lower lip. And damn it all, she looked sexy doing it.

"It would be better for me not to be alone with you," Castiel said.

"What? Why? Some kind of magical angel edict?"

"Residual effects of famine," Castiel said. "I am certain it will subside soon."

The sound of Dean's laughter. "What? Do I look like a big, tasty hamburger to you?"

The flap of wings, and a moment later Dean had rejoined them inside. Yet again, Sam had to wonder about the intensely bizarre relationship between his brother and the angel. Shrugged it off.

"So, Bobby, what do you think?" Sam asked. Bobby, meanwhile, was just staring at Jenine. Sam followed his gaze and. . .his jaw dropped.

Somehow, it the amount of time it had taken him and Dean to step outside, she had completely changed. Again. She was dressed now in a pair of overalls and. . .and that appeared to be it, Sam realized, a blush rising to his cheeks. A red bandana on her head. Her brown hair was tied back in a braid. Dean let out a long whistle, which, of course, ended in a cough.

"Jenine. . .what. . ."

"Hot hell," Jenine said, shaking her head. "You boys look horrible." She walked over to the phone, picked it up, and promptly began dialing. Sam turned to look at his brother. He looked dumbfounded, mouth hanging slightly open.

"Hey, Madge? Yeah, it's Jenine. Look, I'm going to need an order out at the Queen's Motel. Three steaks, mashed taters, green beans, and load it all up with the gravy." She peered over at them for a moment, and a small smile snaked its way across her face. "And, uh, throw in one of those blueberry pies, a'ight? Thanks."

"Bobby?" Sam finally got his voice back, and turned to stare at their old friend, who for his part seemed to just be enjoying the view, a broad grin on his face. "Bobby?" Sam snapped his fingers.

"Er. . .sorry 'bout that," Bobby smartly spun around in his chair. "That the girl?"

"Yeah. . .it was. . ." Sam said, shaking her head. "She seems somehow. . .different."

"Bipolar?" Dean suggested. JEnine grabbed a pillow off the bed and promptly whacked him up the side of the head.

"Who you calling bipolar, Weepy McGee?" she asked. Sam's lips starting twitching. Dean just grabbed the pillow and held it, his face suddenly locked back into its emotionless state.

"Well, I had one thought, but now I'm not so sure anymore," Bobby said, the smile still on his lips. He jerked one finger backwards toward Jenine. "I like this girl."

"Thanks, Grandpa, you're okay yourself," Jenine agreed.

"What – what were you thinking?" Sam asked, trying to get them back on track. This was the last time that he was letting Dean pick a hunt. The absolute last time. Somehow, every time that Dean found something "simple" it ended up being a crazy mess. Deranged Paris Hiltons, Famine, Gabriel. . .it was definitely his turn next.

"Well, based on the symptoms you two'd been exhibiting, I figured her to be a vetala," Bobby said. He wheeled himself over to the computer, quickly typed it in. Sam and Dean crowded over to look, Jenine joining them over Dean's left shoulder.

"It's a type of vampire, in Hindu legend," Bobby explained. "in traditional folklore it can cause a lot of awful things. . .miscarriages, death, whatever. It's caused when a body isn't given a proper burial."

"So our tiredness, the breathing problems. . ." Sam shook his head. "Not possible, though, Bobby. Jenine never died."

Dean stood up abruptly. "Sam. . ." he said slowly. "In the hospital. When she had the coma. Isn't it possible. . ."

"Vetala aren't held to any one shape," Bobby said. "They're a bit like succubi, that way. They take the form of something very much desired."

Dean snapped his fingers. "That explains the T-Bird!"

"What?" Sam furrowed his brow. Maybe his brother had finally lost it.

"Look, Sam, we run into her at the restaurant, you see her first, and she's all sugar and spice and has glasses like a smart chick. . ."

"She said she went to Berkeley. . ."

"And then when I run into her at the bar she's a sexpot, and she's got guns, and a hot car, and she downs beer like nobody's business. . ."

Sam nodded his head. "And then Bobby comes along and she's a greasemonkey with a dirty mouth."

"And a disdain for shirts," Dean finished, a broad smile on his face now. "Which, by the way, Bobby, I like. Nice touch."

"So, let me get this right," Jenine said. "I'm some kind of sex toy? Just the product of your sicko imaginations?"

Sam considered. That wasn't it. . .exactly. And somehow. . .well, according to Bobby, she was some kind of demon-vampire. And yet. . .she wasn't attacking them, wasn't even making the slightest attempt to hurt them. Which didn't make sense. And besides that. . .why did she change when Bobby came in? Not just stay in the SamJenine, or DeanJenine form?

"Why does she keep switching?" Dean asked, ignoring her. "I mean. . .why not be my girl all the time? Or Dean's?"

Bobby frowned. "She must take the form of the strongest yearning, or the strongest personality. The strongest pull, for her. She needs to draw strength from us, remember. Just like a vamp."

"So how do we. . ." Sam fought the words past the lump that suddenly rose in his throat. This was feeling dangerously like the Madison situation a few years ago. "How do we. . .stop her?"

"That's the trick," Bobby said with a sigh. "There is some form of proper burial that she needs. But it's whatever she. . .that is, the original Jenine. . .wants. Somehow we've got to find out from _her_ how she wants her remains handled."

Trickier and trickier. Sam turned to look at Jenine. She was trembling a little. He wanted nothing more than to put an arm around her, even in her current incarnation. It was only another cough from Dean that reminded him just what might happen if he dared to try.

"So how do we get real Jenine?" he asked. Dean grinned, pulled out his cell phone.

"We find the strongest pull that won't want _anything_ out of a woman," Dean said, punching in the number one.

"Hey, Cas?"

**AN: May I just mention, by the way, what a blast it is to write Jenine's character? I mean, you got SuperNiceSammyVersion of Jenine, you got SuperSluttyDean version, you got SuperMechanicSarcasticBobby version and, in the next chapter, the true deliciousness of Jenine's real character. Thank goodness for Angel Antidote!!!**


	8. Chapter 8

**AN: My apologies. . .info dump one!!! Unfortunately there are three more of these exposition dumps coming up. Never the best chapters, but always necessary to set up future events. Sorry!**

The angel popped in immediately, as he always did whenever Dean called. Sam had to back up a step, to keep from having his toe stepped out. Which meant, in effect, that he backed up directly into Jenine. He tensed as his bare foreharm brushed against her side, closed his eyes, prepared for suffocation and. . .nothing. His eyes flew open again, and he stared at her in disbelief. Obviously as confused as he was, she just shrugged her shoulders.

And then. . .everything happened in a blur. Jenine looked over Sam's shoulder, saw something that made her mouth open in an "o" of surprise, her eyes widen and then abruptly she was gone. Completely gone.

"Jenine?" it was Bobby who called out for her, which was a bit surprising to everyone. Castiel narrowed his eyes, opened his mouth to talk, but then the bathroom door opened and out walked not-Jenine.

Or maybe it was real-Jenine. Sam obviously didn't know. She looked the same, mostly. She looked. . .simpler, somehow. Less like an actress. Her hair was tied back, and she had on a pair of loose-fitting jeans, a tank-top, a button-up shirt. A pair of scuffed and worn boots. She looked exactly like a girl who had grown up in Paradise.

"Jenine?" Sam asked. She frowned, turned and looked at him.

"Sam. . ." she said slowly. Looked around the rest of the room. "And Dean. . .and. . .I have no idea who you two are."

"Bobby Singer," Bobby said, wheeling forward and shaking her hand. Sam took half a step forward, trying to stop him, before realizing that Bobby knew exactly what he was doing. They had to find out if Castiel really did work as a kind of angel-antidote. Did he really turn the vetala power back on itself, letting them see Jenine as she truly was.

Their hands touched. Nothing happened. A quick handshake and let go. Sam let out a breath he didn't even know he'd been holding.

"Dean," Castiel seemed unusually fidgety. "Why have you called me here? I thought that I made it clear that this was not a good time."

"Cas, meet Jenine," Dean nodded toward the woman. "Jenine was possessed by a vetala."

"Was possessed?" Castiel frowned. "You exorcised the vetala?"

"No, we, uh, haven't figured that one out, yet." Dean said.

Castiel nodded. Sam turned toward the girl, who still seemed a little confused. He took that as a good sign. After all, wasn't it normal to be confused?

"Do you feel. . .like. . .you again?" he asked the girl. She put one hand to her mouth, rubbed it, as though trying to get rid of a bad taste.

"I don't know," she said. She shrugged. "It feels like. . .like somebody else took me over for a while."

"But you feel back to you, now, right?" Sam asked. Jenine frowned.

"I think so," she said. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm pretty sure. This feels right."

Okay, good. Sam took a deep breath. One problem down. At least they'd been right. Castiel provided the purity needed to wash away the vetala's influence. . .at least for as long as he was around. Now they just had to figure out how to banish the thing forever. Which meant figuring out how Jenine expected her remains to be taken care of.

Oh. Awkward.

Dean cleared his throat, coughed again, and leaned forward. Sam noticed that his brother had carefully put on the mask again. Only his eyes betrayed any intensity.

"Listen, Jenine," he said. He reached out. Sam bit his lip. Dean's hand covered the girl's. Again, nothing happened. Sam breathed again. "I know that this is going to be hard to hear, but. . .we need to know. When you die, what should be done with your body?"

Jenine raised one eyebrow. She didn't see surprised by the question. "Morbid, much?" she asked. She glanced up toward the ceiling, pursed her lips, blew out a long breath, and then met Dean's gaze. "Salt and burn. Make sure that nothing, and I mean _nothing_, is coming back to wear me as a meat suit."

Huh. Sam considered for a minute. She must have been somewhat aware earlier. To know about salting and burning. Another wave of shame rushed through him. Aware, probably, when she'd gone to the cemetery to see her mother's grave. Aware whenever there hadn't been a man around to addle with her mind.

"Yeah," Dean nodded his head. "Yeah, okay."

"Look, I get it," Jenine said, her voice low. She stared at the table, both hands clenched into tight fists. "This thing, this demon is inside of me. You gotta get it out. Might as well get to it right now, when I'm not. . .well."

Dean nodded, ran a hand across his face. Sam tasted blood. He'd bitten through his lip. He looked away from the sad little tableau at the table. Jenine's resolute determination, his brother's equally determined gaze. Bobby, who had turned his attention to the precious Google screen. He was _definitely_ never letting Dean pick a hunt again.

"Here," Jenine pulled a gun out of her back pocket, pushed it gently across the table toward Dean. She glanced up from beneath long eyelashes. "Just do it. Easy, breezy, beautiful. Just, you know. Avoid the face," a bright grin, shining through what had to be terror. A tick in Dean's cheek, but he reached down and picked up the gun, clicked off the safety.

"Wait!" Bobby's voice was rough and low, but it had the necessary effect. Dean lowered the gun, and everyone turned to look at the battered old man. He jabbed one stubby, grubby finger toward the screen. "Boys, I hate to say this, but. . .we're going to have to use the girl."

"What?" Sam's voice came out high-pitched, squeaky. Not at all the indignant manly howl he'd been hoping for.

"Vetala are powerful spirits," Bobby said. "And not necessarily evil. They can be very loyal. They exist outside of time and space."

"So?" Dean scowled. "What are you getting at?"

"Boys, we need this kind of view," Bobby said. "I mean, you got your angel buddy, but let's face it, he hasn't been clued in to the Angel Radio in a while. This girl could give us the heads up that we need."

"No," Dean and Jenine said in unison. Castiel looked over at them sharply.

"No," Dean said again. "Don't matter. Look, first Sammy had those telepathic powers, then the demon blood, then the fuckin' angels. . .we're fighting this our way, Bobby. No demonic help. None."

Jenine nodded. "We can't fight like them," she agreed. Sam was mildly disturbed by her use of the word "we." There was something very strange going on. She pursed her lips. "One hunt at a time."

"He's coming," Castiel said, abruptly. His eyes were wide, his gaze directed toward the door.

"What?" Dean stood, smoothly picking the gun up. "Cas? Who's coming?"

Castiel nodded his head. "Death," he said. "And his retinue."

"Great," Dean shook his head. "Just what we need. We've got a demon with us, and now we've got even more coming to pay a visit. Great."

Sam, meanwhile, tried to shrink back into the furnishings. That niggle, in the very back of his throat that he'd thought had disappeared after the panic room, was starting up again. At the mention of demons, it had reappeared. Just a little scratchiness. Nothing that a glass of water couldn't fix. Though he knew very well that at the moment he couldn't leave the room. He knew what Dean would immediately think.

Although, apparently, Dean still immediately thought it. His eyes flashed over to Sam, his mouth tight, brows drawn down tightly over green eyes. "Great," he muttered again. "Cas, can you. . ."

"I'm sorry," Cas shook his head. "My powers have much diminished. I could take you, one at a time. . ."

"Sam first," Dean shot out. Sam took another step back. God, he felt guilty. He felt like he was six years old again, his brother guarding the door and the back. It always went down this way. Dean feeling like he had to protect him. The niggle grew stronger. Which was ridiculous, really. If he could just get his hands on one demon, he could take care of the whole thing. No one had to get hurt. Just one little demon, just five minutes of blood, and the problem would go away. . .

"Too late," Jenine said dully. She took the gun back from Dean, pointed out the window at the dark sky. "They're already here."


	9. Chapter 9

**AN: 1,000 hits! Hooray! As a reward for all of you readers, two chaps in one day! This one, unfortunately, is uber-short. My apologies: I don't write ation well. **

**Double-thanks to AmberDreams for the reviews. Much appreciated! Happy readings, all. **

There wasn't time to prepare anything. Bobby cursed himself for being lazy, for not having fixed the salt lines that his wheels had dislodged, not bothering to chide the boys for their laziness in creating the Devil's Traps. He had a canteen of holy water strapped to his chair, the usual rounds of salt loaded in his gun, but it sure wasn't a hell of a lot against an army of demons.

The door flew open with a crash, splinters flying through the air. One struck him in the face, blunt side, luckily, enough to bruise, but nothing else. Castiel was not as lucky, as one particularly large piece embedded itself in his shoulder. Without changing expression, the angel reached up and pulled it out.

There were three men standing in the door, and Bobby felt a moment of relief. Just three. That wasn't so bad. They could handle three, maybe. Handle them enough, anyway, for Cas to pop them out, one by one. It was just strategy. Who to go first.

"Cas!" Dean lifted his gun, fired off three quick shots. "Take Sam and go! Now!" The hunter flung himself to the bed and pulled out the knife, staying low to the ground.

"Dean, no!" Sam was scrabbling for something himself. Castiel meanwhile, stuck-up angel priss, seemed to be ignoring both of them. He moved forward with measured steps, and put one hand on the forehead of a demon. He frowned, and a slow sizzle rose from the demon's head. Dean lunged forward, caught the second demon deep in the thigh just before the third one caught him by the neck and flung him across the room. Miraculously, Dean managed to hang on to the knife until he hit the far wall. His body crumpled to the ground.

Sam came up with the Colt, fired one bullet straight into the forehead of the third demon. Bobby let out a breath.

Well, that wasn't so bad.

He was just glad that Dean had the presence of mind to keep the knife to himself. Even now, he saw how Sam's gaze flickered between his brother's prone body and the knife beside it.

Jenine, also, seemed to see the knife. She lunged for it, came up before Sam could take a step forward. She licked her lips, stayed in a low crouch.

"There are more coming," she said. "A hell of a lot more."

Of course. Bobby pulled up the gun. Even as he spun around the window exploded in, glass shards cutting through his jacket. He grunted as a thousand little slivers left stinging gashes across his cheek. At the back of the room Dean stirred, groaned, pushed himself shakily erect.

"Sam?" he croaked.

"Dean!" Sam crossed the room in an instance, skirting Jenine, who still looked slightly deranged, the knife held out in front of her. The younger Winchester grabbed his brother by the shoulder, held him wholly erect. "You okay?"

"Sam," Dean shook his head, blew out a breath of air, winced, coughed. "You grab Cas and get out of here, you hear me."

"No, Dean," Sam shook his head, brown hair flying. "I'm not just leaving you, with demons on their way, and Death. . ."

Three more figures filled the room. One reached out and punched the angel in the face before he had a chance to react. Sam lifted his gun, at the same time that another demon, this one a slight young woman, lifted her own and sent him crashing into the same wall that Dean had just collided with. The Colt fell to the ground.

Bobby fired, twice, but it did little more than pause the demons, who glanced down at their smoking chests in something resembling amusement. Bobby braced himself for the jolt, prepared to feel himself flying across the room. Instead, the demons just ignored him. As though he were nothing. As though he couldn't possibly pose any threat to them.

Jenine threw the knife, hitting one high in the chest. As it fell to the ground she dove forward, recovered the knife, came up standing again, brandishing the knife in front of her.

"Interesting," said the small female demon. "Didn't expect you find you, here."

"Put down the knife," said a second demon, eyes beetleblack. "We just want to take your friend, Sam. Don't worry, we won't hurt him. You know we won't."

"You're not taking him anywhere," Jenine growled. Bobby tried to wheel his chair back, to get to the gun. The wheels squeaked. The smaller demon lifted her hand, and when he tried to move the chair again, nothing happened.

Behind him he heard a low chant. An exorcism, he recognized. He craned his neck back, saw Castiel standing, now. His eyes were almost. . .glowing. Not just the normal cobalt blue, but as though they sizzled. Blue electricity.

"Really?" the demon laughed. "A fallen angel? Trying to send _us_ back to hell?"

Castiel just kept walking. Dean had pulled himself up again, was trying to find something on the ground. The Colt, Bobby realized. He was looking for the Colt.

Jenine threw the knife again, a desperate attempt. The huge demon plucked it out of the air, dropped it disdainfully to the ground.

"Now then," He said. "Sam Winchester."

Cas reached out both hands, touched the demons on their head. They just stared at him, disdainfully. Bobby's heart sunk.

Dean had told him about his worry for the angel. . .how his powers seemed to be waning, daily, but he'd never actually had to see it. It was heartbreaking. Castiel, however, didn't seem the least bit worried.

"Now," he hissed.

The Colt fired. The big demon fell. The little one screamed.

"Fine!" she shrieked. "Fine! Wait for Death!"

Then, abruptly, she exploded into a billion bits of darkness.


	10. Chapter 10

**AN: Second massive expo dump! Oh, the problems with writing an extremely theoretical story. Here's the big crux: where it shifts from being just a regular shortish fic, into becoming a MONSTER!!!**

**Also, warning: On Sunday I will be changing the title and description of the story to better match the direction that it is taking. And. . .new title will be:**

**From What I've Tasted of Desire**

**Make of that what you will! Happy reading.**

Sam woke up in the middle of a valley. There was a butterfly balanced on his nose. He stared at it, a little cross-eyed. It was a pretty butterfly. . .orange and black markings, and fuzzy little antennae that fluttered in the breeze. A monarch butterfly. Common in Michigan in August.

Dimly, but with increasing volume, he heard voices around him.

"We have to use her."

"No. . .it's not. . .it doesn't matter. We don't _use_ people like that. I won't become that. I won't let _her_ become that."

"She already is, Dean. Look at her! She's just a demon! Not an evil one, but a demon nonetheless."

"Cas fixed her. She's back to normal! We can set her soul to rest!"

"She's not normal, Dean. Look at her. Really _look_ at her."

Sam rolled over on his side. Nobody seemed to be paying the least bit of attention to him. Which was fine, really. It was very nice, lying in the grass with his new butterfly friend. It smelled nice, sweet. A little like hay, like when they'd spent a week in the barn when he was ten. Dean had hated the cows. Sam had named them.

Sprawled out only a little bit away from him was Jenine. She'd converted back into the overall outfit, bandana and all. One strap had fallen down over a freckled shoulder. Sam was glad to see that she did have a bra on under it. Black, of course.

Dean was crouched beside Bobby's chair, pulling out what looked like little slivers of glass. He tried to remember what had happened. Demons, he remembered that much, remembered crashing into the wall. But then? Nothing.

He probably had a concussion. The butterfly waved at him.

Where had Cas gotten to?

"Of course she's gone back," Dean argued. "Angel-Be-Gone had to take off, remember? When he gets back, she'll be back. We can take care of her and then. . ."

"She's still possessed when Wings is around," Bobby argued. The old man sounded almost petulant in his insistance. Sam decided to name the butterfly Queenie. "Did you look at her Dean? Did she remind you of anyone?"

"Yeah," Dean said. "A townie from a place called Paradise."

"Fine," Bobby said, resignation finally in his voice. "Fine, Dean. Still. As soon as your angel buddy gets back, I think you'd better have a long chat with him. Something isn't adding up about this whole hunt."

"Yeah," Dean said. "Like how the demons found us. How _Death_ found us. What happened to those Enochian sigils?"

"They didn't find you," Sam propped open one eye. Jenine was sitting up, pushing her hair back away from her face. "They found me."

Sam sighed. That was his cue. Time to sit up and get back into the business. He pushed himself up on bruised elbows. Dean, of course, instantly caught the movement.

"Hey, Sammy," he said nonchalantly. "Back with us."

"Yeah, I'm back," Sam said. "Jenine, what do you mean, they found you?"

She sighed, turned to look at Bobby. "You were right, darling," she said. "Vetala exist outside of time. We see the past, the present, the future. . .all at once, just as they're happening. I'm sorry I couldn't help earlier. The angel. . ."

Dean's mouth quirked, his patented "told you so" look, which he directed toward Bobby.

"Anyway. The angel is exceptionally powerful."

"So the demons want a vetala for themselves," Bobby mused. "It makes sense, but it seems a little overkill. Aren't they holding all of the cards?"

Jenine laughed. "Depends. Have you ever tried to think about what the demons want?"

"Um. . .to start the Apocalypse?" Sam suggested.

"To destroy all of mankind?" Dean postulated.

"The very last thing that the demons want is the Apocalypse," Jenine. "Haven't any of you ever read Revelations? Do you know what the Apocalypse is?"

Sam nodded. "It's the end of the world. When God gathers all souls to him in Heaven."

"Exactly," Jenine said. "Now think. Can you idjits consider, for one instance, why demons would want everyone heralded into heaven?"

Sam considered. Put that way, it didn't really make much sense. They'd been so focused on all of the horrors that would be visited upon the Earth, that they hadn't actually considered the end result. Bobby was staring at the girl with a look of admiration on his weathered face.

"Lucifer wants the Apocalypse, because he wants back into heaven. The demons, though. . .they're doing everything they can to stop it. You know, without actually cluing in their master."

"Which is why they want Dean dead," the words were out before Sam had a moment to censor them. Of course. If they wanted the Apocalypse, then Dean had to be alive. The two vessels had to square off. And it was very, very clear that Lucifer wanted the Apocalypse.

"Very good, Sammyboy," Jenine smiled. "Glad that college education is finally having a use. Now. Of the seven seals of Heaven that must be broken in order for the Apocalypse to take place, six have been broken."

"Damn it, more seals!" Dean shook his head. "Seriously? Six? How the hell did we miss that?" he stared up at the sky. "you hear that, Cas? We are screwed, man!"

Jenine held up her hand, began patiently ticking it off. "The witnesses. The four horsemen. The blackened sky and earthquake."

Sam licked his lips. He vaguely remembered a lecture that he'd heard his sophomore year, during a session on Islamic, Judaic, and Christian interminglings. He prayed that he was wrong. "The seventh seal. . .it's the angels, isn't it?"

"SCREWED!" Dean almost screamed now.

"God, do they ever shut up?" JEnine asked Bobby. The older man laughed, a short, harsh, bitter sound.

"Not as often as I'd like," he said.

"Okay, listen, you're not screwed. Yet," Jenine said. "Two things: one, a few another signs must occur simultaneously. Babylon must be defeated, and she's still going strong. The elect must be chosen, and last I checked, nobody knew who was good on your planet. Thirdly, Michael and Lucifer must meet a second time: the two beasts, one in the guise of the dragon and one in the guise of the lamb must fight."

"Okay, that's good," Dean nodded. "What's the second thing?"

"Well," Jenine smiled at this. "The angels won't break the seventh seal until they know the first six are kaput. I'm pretty sure they don't know about the fourth horseman."

Sam frowned. The fourth horseman: pestilence. Had he been loosed already? They hadn't noticed. . .then again, they also hadn't recognized the signs of Famine, War, or Death. . .not until they'd stumbled right onto them, anyway. Which didn't say a whole lot for their ability to stop the Apocalypse.

"Oh great," Jenine rolled her eyes. "Here he comes again. See you in a bit, fellows."

Before their very eyes she shimmered, and by the time the beating of wings had alerted them to Castiel's presence, she was returned to her regular visage, scuffed boots, button down and all. There was one tiny addition: this time she had also layered on a denim jacket.

Dean apparently didn't feel any need for pleasantries. "Cas, what do you know about the four horsemen?"

The angel jerked at that. He looked at Dean, peering closely. Apparently whatever he was looking for wasn't there, for he nodded and settled back a bit.

"War, Famine, Death. . .you already know this," the angel said in a slightly disapproving tone.

"And the fourth one?" Dean pressed. The angel frowned.

"There is some. . .disagreement on the fourth one. Generally he is regarded as Pestilence, though he has also been seen as Conquest, and . . .why do you ask?"

"The vetala," Bobby said. "Said that all four are out and about. What do you think?"

The angel grew paler. "Possible," he said. "Very possible."

"Stop dancing around the bush," Jenine said irritably. "Just tell him."

"Tell me what?"

And Sam knew. He could read it, in the angry way that Jenine held her shoulders, in the slumped resignation of Castiel. He thought, maybe, that even his brother knew it, too. Bobby certainly did.

"Famine didn't affect you, did He?" Bobby asked. Dean looked at him, something like guilt flashing across his face.

"He did," Sam said, resolutely. "It was just. . .the opposite of everyone else. Instead of being hungry, Dean. . .wasn't. Even when he normally would have been."

"It's because I have no soul," Dean said lowly. "Don't pretend you didn't hear him, Sam."

"No," Castiel said forcefully. He marched over to Dean, grabbed the taller man by the shoulders and peered intently into his eyes. "I have seen your soul, Dean. It shone brighter than anything, _anything_ else in Hell. I have _seen_ it."

"You weren't affected because you, Dean, are the only thing on earth that a horseman can't affect," Jenine said. She pulled out a gun, from where Sam had no idea, and began calmly taking it apart.

"An angel?" Dean guessed. Jenine grinned.

"Oh, no," she said glibly. A broad smile broke out on her face. "The horsemen can have an effect on angels. Just go ahead and ask yours. Aren't I right, Cas?"

Castiel, meanwhile, had forced himself even closer to Dean, still hadn't broken eye contact. It wasn't until Dean nodded. . .just the briefest gesture, and Sam wouldn't have noticed if he hadn't been so focused himself – that the angel moved away, backed off.

"There is one other theory on the fourth horseman," Castiel said, uncomfortably. "He rides a white horse, which has ever been a sign of purity. Some believe that the fourth horseman is none other than the righteous man."

Sam sucked in a deep breath. It was what he'd been afraid of, what he hadn't wanted to voice, even to himself, but as Castiel said the words, a hundred little pieces fell into place. How Dean was able to resist War, when he himself had been hopelessly confused. Why Lucifer and Death had let him live at Carthage. Why Famine had ignored him. Why Heaven had taken such an interest.

"Oh, that's just great," Dean groused. "So now I'm a freakin' resurrected zombie, an angel's meatsuit, _and_ one of the riders of the Apocalypse. Oh that's just freakin' great!"

"Well, look at it this way," Jenine said. "at least it's one more thing you don't have to hunt."


	11. Chapter 11

**AN: Keep in mind: Title Change Sunday: "From What I've Tasted of Desire" !!!**

**Also. . .cue the angst. THE ANGST!!!! **

**PS. . .yes, I am fully aware that Conquest/Pestilence/JC/The Righteous Man rides a white horse. Don't worry. The white horse will appear. . .or reappear. . .or continue to appear, as the case may be. (:**

Dean had sent Cas off at around midnight, after having gone through two bottles of Johnny Walker. Bobby hated to see the kid doing himself in this way, but even he had to admit: it wasn't looking good. It was looking more and more like the most noble thing that the Winchester boys could do was to say "yes", and it was looking more and more like they wouldn't have any choice in doing so.

Cas had patiently explained, more than once, that the meadow they were currently camping it was Paradise, cerca 1812, long before Shelton had been formed, and in a part of wilderness that even the encroaching war wouldn't effect, but Dean had insisted that they find out what was going on. Cas, ever the obedient rebellious angel, had zipped himself off to gather some more intelligence, presumably.

Dean had passed out, still clutching a bottle of whiskey, and Sam had valiantly tried to stay awake, but had succumbed as well. It was just Bobby keeping watching. Well, Bobby and Jenine, who apparently felt no need to sleep.

"It's rough, isn't it," Jenine said lowly. Bobby turned to look at her, his eyes narrowed. She was back into her most beautiful form, but he still didn't trust her. Her information seemed true enough. . .Castiel had certainly believed her. . .and she hadn't tried to kill anyone yet, but the articles he'd read on the vetala hadn't quite left him, yet.

"What's rough?"

"The Apocalypse," she said. "It's not one of those black-and-white hunts y'all are used to. For once, your side losing might be the best thing for the world."

"Maybe," He said gruffly. He peeked at her again, just out the side of his eye. She really was lovely. All that thick brown hair bound back, and those bright brown eyes. . .

She scooted over toward him, leaning casually against the side of his wheelchair. She didn't look at him, for which he was grateful. She stared instead at the slumbering Winchesters.

"They really are beautiful, aren't they," she said, a light note of longing in her voice. He followed her gaze.

They were beautiful, laid out in the field. Sam had covered Dean with a threadbare blanket – usually laid over Bobby's knees, to keep away the chill, not that he was likely to admit that to them. The moonlight played across their strong features, bathed them in a kind of peace. Dean's face didn't look so bitter at night, and Sam regained an innocence that had somehow been lost over the last year.

"Yeah," he said. He was surprised to feel moisture in his eyes, raised one hand to brush it away. "They're good boys. They don't deserve this."

A warm hand covered his own, and when he looked down in surprise, he found that this time Jenine was staring only at him.

"You don't deserve this, either," she said. Bobby didn't say anything. "I mean, look at all that you've lost. Your family. Your best friend. Your wife. Your legs. The only thing you have left is the hunt, and without your legs, you don't even have that."

Another tear trembled in Bobby's eye, but he refused to take his hand away from her, even to wipe it away. It fell, slowly, a track against the aged wrinkled on his face. Jenine, damn her, just kept talking.

"At least they have each other, don't they. Dean has his angel. And they have their war. What do you have, Robert Singer? What do you have left?"

She pulled herself to her knees, put herself on a level eye with him. She smiled, a sad, slow smile. "You deserve some happiness, too." She leaned forward, kissed him gently.

The effect was electric and instantaneous. Bobby jerked back, pulling his lips out of her grasp. He might be a pathetic old man, but he was far from stupid. She was still a vetala. The three deaths were still on his mind, and he tried to avoid eye contact. She put one hand, too strong for any mortal, on his chin, turned his head so that he had no choice but to look at her.

"Bobby," she said, and in her broken voice he heard his wife. A little bit of his heart tore free, and it was only by glancing around her, seeing Sam and Dean, that he was able to hold anything together, even by a tendril.

"Get back," he said. "This is a trick."

She shook her head. "It's not a trick," she said. "This is who I am. Everything that you want me to be, for as long as you want me. You deserve some goodness, Robert Singer. In the morning, the angel will return, and I'll be gone. Don't you want this?"

And he did, damn it all, he did. He looked back at her again, and this time when she kissed him he let her. She tasted like cinnamon and whiskey. He groaned a little in the back of his throat. He hadn't been with a woman since his wife had died. Hadn't wanted to. . .and had felt that it would be a betrayal. But this woman smelled of grease and home-cooked food. She straddled his lap, clasped his face between two, callused hands.

"Always the martyr," she breathed, leaning forward and kissing first one eyelid, then the other. "Tonight is just for you, Bobby Singer. Just for you."

* * * * *

Dean had always been a light sleeper. Or at least, for as long as he could remember, which was mostly just since the fire. His father had ingrained it in him, trained it into him. Another bulwark against the things that went bump in the night. Another way to protect Sam. Even after a bender, he still perked up at the sound of boots outside a door, at the slightest moan from Sam's bed.

So when he heard the voice, whispering low and far from him, he opened one eye. When he heard Sam's soft "noo" he jerked fully awake, and turned to see a figure kneeling above his brother. He grabbed the knife, which thankfully nobody had taken away from him, and hurled it straight at the mystery attacker. He was on his knees, scrambling toward his brother before the creature had time to react.

"Ow!" Jenine said irritably, pulling the knife out and glaring at it. As Dean watched, surprised and not a little frightened, the red splotch that had appeared in her right shoulder slowly disappeared. She pushed her glasses a little further up her nose and glared at him. "What was that for?"

Dean ignored her, leaned down and pressed a hand against his brother's carotid artery. Come on, Sammy, come on. . .there is was, steady as ever. He lifted his hand to his brothers mouth, felt only a brief moment of panic before he felt the slight puff of breath coming through. Not what they should have been, in the midst of sleep, but still breathing. He settled back a little, and glared at the vetala.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" he asked. She stared back at him, almost bewildered looking.

"I'm sorry. . ." she said, lifting her hands. "I was just trying to help. It's. . .it's Bobby."

Only then did he turn his attention to the third member of their impromptu little family.

Bobby was slumped over in the wheelchair, arms hanging bonelessly off the armrests. His legs were thin. . .so thin. . .when had they lost all muscle. . .and his face. . .Dean held back the bile rising in his throat. The skin was parchment paper with nothing behind it. The lips a pale blue. He knew, before even touching this surrogate father, that the skin would be cold, lifeless. The heart would not beat. The lungs would not breathe.

"Son of a bitch." He couldn't help it, though, He reached out with trembling fingers. Pulled off the trucker hat and put it back on. It was wrong, seeing Bobby without it. Too much like the hospital. Too much like defeat. He touched one hand, briefly, barely. Spun around, because he couldn't think, not right now, not like this.

"You _bitch_!" he screamed, and launched himself at her, with fists flying and not much else thought in his head. She stepped aside, quickly and gracefully, and he found himself landind painfully in the grass, fists driving deep into the soft ground, pushing himself right up again. Because he had to hit her, had to hurt her, because he knew, knew, _knew_ she had done this, and who cared that she was an ageless being, who cared that she might have the answer to the Apocalypse, who the hell cared anyway. . .

And he was off again, and she sidestepped again. This time he was ready, though, caught himself still on his feet, and turned around. But where a minute a minute before she had stood, confused and petite with glasses and a shapeless dress, she was back to that incarnation that they all knew best, scuffed shoes, torn jeans, and a gun pointed straight at his heart.

"Dean. . ." Cas' voice, from right behind him, and if he couldn't hit the vetala, he had to take out the rage on something. He turned around, hit the angel hard, low, and welcomed the pain that shot through his hand.

"Cas, you son of a bitch," he growled. "You left. You left and that damn demon killed Bobby!"


	12. Chapter 12

**AN: Keep in mind: Title Change Sunday: "From What I've Tasted of Desire" !!!**

**Gasp. . .the plot thickens.**

**And, as I have just completed 40,000 words (my longest fanfic ever. . .and it kind of makes me sick when I think about it) you all get multiple chapter updates. **

**BTW: Chapter 13 is my second favorite chapter that I've written. Chapter 17 is my absolute favorite. So get excited!!!**

They burned Bobby, which hurt more than it should have. Still, the Winchesters had learned from long, hard, painful experience that it was better to be completely certain. They stood in front of it, stone-faced and hard. Castiel stood beside them. Jenine was further away, a speck in the night sky. She knew, without having been told, that she was not welcome. Castiel, for his part, was glad that she had put some distance between them. Her presence made things. . .difficult.

"We should just kill her now," Dean said harshly. "She's dangerous."

"You know that we cannot," Castiel said. "She knows too much."

The angel was surprised that it was Sam who walked away first, who went to stand near a thicket of trees and stare off moodily. Usually it was Dean who avoided difficult situations, Dean who thought that running or fighting were the only options. Castiel couldn't help but feel the rush of warmth that Dean didn't feel the need to run away from him.

"I'm sorry that I hit you," he said, roughly.

"It did not hurt," Castiel said. Dean laughed a little at that, but it was a harsh, bitter laugh. It hurt Castiel's ears to hear it.

"Dean," he said. "We need to talk."

He winced, thinking about what the hunter might say. Some kind of a joke, undoubtedly, or a complaint over chick flick moments. But apparently, to Dean at least, this was the right moment. Of course. Before a funeral pyre.

"All right," Dean said. "You first. Why does everybody keep insisting that Famine had an effect on you."

Castiel did not want to answer that question. He did not think Dean would like the answer. Honesty, however, and faith, compelled him to respond.

"Because he did."

Dean's eyes jerked up at that, and Castiel was glad for the flash of green in the darkness. The red light of the dying fight reflected in them, reminded the angel of the first time he had seen that green, deep in the fiery pits of hell. The eyes had been no less beautiful there.

"And?" Dean quirked one eyebrow. "You told me it was just the vessel."

"Jimmy Novak hungered for meat," Castiel clarified. "I hungered for something different. I thought it was better to indulge Jimmy's hunger than my own. It was less deadly."

"Did you forget the Twinkie guy?" Dean asked. He sighed, looked back at the burning remains of his friends. "Come on, Cas. You're an angel. What did you want, some extra time with Daddy? Nothing that would have killed you."

"No," Castiel said. "It would not have harmed me."

Dean sighed. He rubbed at his eyes, vigorously. It was possible that they were irritated by the smoke. Castiel could feel his own eyes tearing up. He did not think that was the cause of the hunters tears, however.

"Look, Cas, I have an idea," he said. "And you're not going to like it, but I'm going to need your help."

"I am always of service," Castiel said. Dean nodded.

"Okay. First things first. You still think I have a soul, correct?"

Castiel's head whipped around. He searched the hunter's eyes for the seeds of doubt that had been there. His face was a mask, however, so Castiel looked deeper. Dean was not sinking into despair, he was glad to realize. He just needed confirmation. Castiel nodded.

"Yes," he said. "Of this I am certain."

"Okay," Dean licked his lips. Castiel tensed. He was not going to like the words coming out of the hunters mouth. He could tell. "I need you to purify Sam and my souls. When we die, I need us to go to Heaven."

Castiel shook his head. "You are not dying, Dean," he said, a thread of panic wriggling through the core of his very being. "Not while I live to prevent it."

"No, Cas, that's the plan," Dean said. "See, if that vetala is right. . .and if I am a horseman of the Apocalypse. . .then it's pretty damn clear that nothing we do is going to stop this thing. So it's time that we take this war to where it belongs. Heaven."

"You are looking for God. I have already told you, he is not in Heaven."

"God?" Dean shook his head. "If he exists. I'm not looking for God. I'm looking for John. If he wrote Revelations, he must have some idea what's going to happen. Some idea how to stop it."

Castiel frowned. Sam was a silhouette against the stars. How strange, he thought, that a man who was supposed to house Lucifer should block out the light. Jenine still sat, silent and docile, against a tree. He could feel her following his every move.

They'd agreed, together, to keep her alive. Her knowledge was useful, and besides, Dean had pointed out, as long as they kept Cas around, she wouldn't hurt anyone. She'd been angel-proofed, he'd said. Sam had seemed less certain, but Castiel had assured him. He had no desire to bed the woman.

Or at least, he had no desire to bed her, when the true version was still alive and breathing.

This plan, however, would change all of that. Castiel sucked in a breath, considered. For Dean Winchester, it was well thought-out. It pleased the angel to realize that for once it was a win-win situation. If they found the Prophet John, they lived to fight another day. If they failed, the Apocalypse would still happen, but at least he could be certain that the Winchesters were in a better place.

It would leave him vulnerable. He would not tell Dean.

"I do not like the idea of you dying," Castiel said shortly. "You know that it cannot be by suicide. That is instant damnation."

"Yeah," Dean smiled, wan and weak. But he was trying. Castiel's heart tugged a little. This was what was beautiful about humans. They just kept trying, kept fighting. "That's the other good thing about keeping that damned vetala around. We send you out on a burger run, and she'll take care of us. We just need our souls clean, so we don't end up down below."

Dean shuddered a little. Castiel reached out, put a hand on the other man's shoulders. Of course. Death terrified him. The last time, forty years in Hell. . .Castiel had been there, had seen the torment they'd inflicted on him.

"Dean, I promise you, you will not go to Hell."

Dean looked up at him, those little glints of sea green again. "You can't promise me that, Cas," he said, his voice raspy with remembered pain.

"No," Castiel ducked his head. He couldn't. That was true. Every day he lost more of his powers. He would never be able to stop Lucifer, if he caught wind of the plan, from dragging both Winchesters deep down below. "But I will come find you again. And I will lift you again. You do not belong there."

Dean placed his hand over the angel's own, gave it a tight squeeze.

"Okay," Dean said. "Thanks. Now. How you going to go about getting these tarnished souls of ours all bright and shiny?"


	13. Chapter 13

**AN: Keep in mind: Title Change Sunday: "From What I've Tasted of Desire" !!!**

**As promised, multi-chapter update! This chap kind of marks the end of the first act: the hunt has now definitively turned from being just a vetala, into being a final push to stop the Apocalypse. I know. I don't know how this happened, either. **

**Agga, thanks for the lovely review. Read into Cas as you wish.**

Father Reilly had been a priest for forty-two years. It wasn't as many as some in the diocese, but it was enough. He'd served in prisons, served for NASA, served in the army. He'd listened to people recite horrible sins, tears standing out in eyes. He'd listened to five men on death row. He knew that he hadn't seen or heard it all, but he thought that he'd seen or heard enough.

He preferred not to hear confessions anymore, and for the most part he didn't have to. The younger priests still liked it, still got their jollies out of handing out absolution, the same way they still basked in the glory of transubstantiation. He'd been a priest too long. He didn't think that when he said the words, anything happened. The bread still tasted like bread. The sinner still looked like a sinner.

His sister said that he'd lost his calling, and that he'd better find something else soon, before he became a sad-sack shell of a man. But she didn't know, she couldn't understand. He was almost seventy years old. The only things he had were the rituals of an old man. Morning mass, evening mass, funerals in between.

And even if he wasn't certain that he believed in God anymore, there was still something familiar to the rites and rituals. It was like petting a cat. Soothing.

The only downside, really, were those rare weekends when the younger priests took off. One was doing a destination wedding. The other had to attend the funeral of his own mother. Father Reilly blamed neither for the absence, he just regretted that it put him in the position of sitting in the cramped confessional booth, listening to old ladies natter on about how they'd forgotten to tell their dead husbands' that they loved them.

He handed out Hail Mary's and Glory Be's as penance, raised his hands and uttered the words, but he felt no power in it. The ladies must have, though, as they clutched their purses close and clucked their way out the door. He wished he served in a newer parish. He'd heard that the youth didn't believe in absolution. He liked tat idea.

He was almost done for the day when the three strangers entered the church. He had, in fact, closed the door to the confessional, was checking that the tabernacle was still locked. Ten minutes left. Ten minutes. He looked over at the strangers.

Three men, in their early 30s, maybe, and that was strange enough. Women loved Reconciliation, old women in particular. He hadn't seen a young man since he'd left the army, though. A few times on college campus circuits. In prison. Never just walking, freely, into a church. Not without a woman shoving him forward, or a pair of kids who were heading in for the first, maybe second time.

Then again, he thought, as he looked at them again. Maybe they were on leave from a tour of duty. They had the tired, worn look of soldiers. They looked dusty, though the clothing they were was probably clean. Their eyes were haunted. Creases had been carved into their skin, aging them. So. He thought. Soldiers.

"Hey, boys," he said, waving a hand and waving them over. Everyone was a boy to him, now. Men his own age were boys. It was the way it worked.

Two of them waved back, headed over toward him. The third, the shortest, remained standing where he was, staring up at the crucifix looming over the altar. Father Reilly had never liked the crucifix. In a church that supposedly centered upon redemption and resurrection, he didn't see why the main symbol would be one of death. Then again, there's not much that he does understand about the church, these days.

"Hello, Father," says the taller of the men. He is truly gigantic. . .Father Reilly comes up only to the very bottom of his shoulders. But when he smiles down his eyes are warm. You can tell a lot about a person by their eyes. And his are. . .a bit haunted, yes, as though he's seen wars and death, but they aren't dead. There's hope in those eyes, and an innocence that may never be lost. Nice eyes. "We've come for confession."

"Of course you have," Father Reilly says. He glances at the other man, who has refused to meet his eyes. He is shorter. He turns at the priests words, and smiles a brilliant grin, lighting up the dim sacristy.

"Sure thing, Padre," he says, and his eyes are dancing green. But not as nice. Father Reilly thinks. Not nearly as nice.

"All right then."

The priest leads the taller of the two men back into the confessional room. It's small and cramped, and the drape is pushed back. He ushers the man toward the more comfortable of the two chairs, settles himself back down into the other. They'll have to get them reupholstered. Springs are bursting loose, digging in to the small of his back. Then again, maybe not. Isn't suffering a primary tenant of his religion? The priest gestures toward the curtain.

"You can close it, if you'd like," Father Reilly said. "To retain anonymity."

The man laughed, and it was a pure sound. "That seems kind of backwards, if you don't mind," he said. "Since you've already seen my face."

"Okay." Father Reilly pressed his fingers together, making a lattice out of them. Here is the church, here is the steeple. Old nursery rhymes. "How long, my son, since your last confession?"

The man squirmed uncomfortably then, and for the first time refused to meet his eyes.

"Um, never," he said finally. He peeked a glance, sideways, as though searching the old priest's face for something. "We weren't exactly. . .raised in the church."

"Okay," The priest nodded. "Okay. Were you baptized?"

"I don't know."

"Confirmed? Have you received First Eucharist?"

"I'm pretty sure I haven't."

The man's brow furrowed. He leaned in, and his eyes widened. They were as eager to please as those of a golden retriever. He wasn't a man at all, the priest realized. He was a boy. Maybe 25. Maybe younger. War did cruel things to a man.

"Father," he said, his tone earnest. "Can I still receive absolution, even if I'm not Catholic?"

And oh, did Father Reilly have an answer for that. For the church was steeped in its traditions. Proper rites being performed at the proper time. The answer, of course, was no. Baptism was the first rite of initiation. . .without there, there could be no communion, no reconciliation. But as he stared at the man with the nice eyes, Father Reilly decided to ignore that. After all, if this boy wanted a penance handed out and some words said, who was he to deny them? When he couldn't feel the power in them himself, anyway.

"That will be fine, young man," he said. "Tell me, how have you sinned?"

The man thought about it, for a long moment. He leaned back, put both hands to his head, and truly considered. Something moved deep inside Father Reilly's chest, because this, after all, was what the sacrament was about. A deep reflection of wrong-doing. Too many came in with laundry lists, and he wanted nothing more than to kick them in the keisters, to yell "if you knew it was wrong, why sin in the first place?"

"I lost my faith," the boy said finally. "Not in God. . .not exactly. But in everything else. I lost my faith in my family, lost my faith in my brother, even lost my faith in myself."

"And have you found this lost faith?"

"I don't know," the boy said. "I think so. I'm about to find out, anyway."

"Those are mistakes," Father Reilly said after a moment. "Those are missteps and miscalculations, but they are not sins."

The boy nodded, considered again. "I lie," he said finally. "Cheat, steal. Even murder. But I don't think those are sins."

The priest nodded his head. He'd heard stranger. Not a single movement in his face. "Why not?"

"Because. They're always to help someone, to _save_ someone. I'm not doing it for me."

The priest sighed. This, precisely, was why they weren't supposed to just let anyone off the street into a confessional. "I am sorry my child," he said, leaning forward and placing one hand on the boys' forearm, keeping him from speaking any more. "I am sorry, but in this church, it is the deed that forms the sin, and not the thought. The ends do not ever justify the means."

The boy seemed surprised at this. He nodded, but then leaned forward again, no less intense.

"Father," he said. "I know this goes against. . .well, against something. But I really, really need for you to grant me absolution."

Father Reilly stared at this boy, who didn't know what he was asking. Both something so great, and so inconsequential. He sighed. He should say no. It was his duty to say no. But those eyes still held hope in them, and he refused to be the one to wipe them out.

"Are you sorry for your sins?"

"I am not sorry for saving people," the boy said stubbornly. The priest considered for a moment.

"Are you sorry that you had to use means of sin to save people?"

The boy smiled, and though it was not as bright as the other man's, it still lit the room more than any candle. "yes," he said.

Father Reilly nodded. It was enough, to say words that had no meaning.

"Just as Jesus, through his dying on the cross, reconciled the world to Himself, and sent forth the Holy Ghost for the forgiveness of sins; so too does God reconcile you to himself. I absolve you of your sins. Go in peace, to love and serve the Lord."

The boy crossed himself, clumsily and with his left hand. It was a sad little sign, but it made the priest smile. The boy stood to leave, but then half-turned, confusion on his face.

"Don't I have to serve a penance?" he asked. The priest sighed. Desert winds and flying shrapnel.

"My child, I sense that you are already serving it. Go in peace."

It took a few minutes for the other man to enter. A few minutes in which Father Reilly found himself strangely exhausted. He lifted a hand in front of his eyes. It trembled. He was truly getting old.

The door creaked open, and the shorter man sauntered in. He almost fell into the seat across from the priest.

"All right, padre, lay it on me," he said, again with the bright smile and the dead eyes.

"Should I assume that you, as your friend, were not raised in the church?" Father Reilly asked. The smile slowly ran away from the man's face, and he shifted in the seat.

"Um. . .no," he said. "But Sam said that you could do this anyway."

The priest sighed, closed his eyes. "All right. Tell me, how have you sinned."

"Um, let's see. I drink, I swear, I say Jesus Christ a lot. . .not when I'm praying, I mean, mostly when I'm pissed off. God damn. Uh. . .never went to church. I lie, I steal, I con people out of their money. I fornicate. . .oh good God, do I fornicate. . .I've tortured people. I caused the freakin' Apocalypse. I failed my father and my brother. What else. . .oh! I break in and trespass. I desecrate graves. I probably have desecrated a church or two. . .definitely broke a virgin Mary statue. Broke a few virgin Mary's, too, if you know what I mean. . ."

The priest held up a hand, wearily. A laundry list again, with no reflection, no thought. Grains of insanity in there, but also, somewhere, he thought, maybe a bit of penitence.

"Sorry, man," the man said sheepishly. "Got a little carried away. A bit outside your pay grade, isn't it?"

"Let me try this another way," Father Reilly said. "Don't tell me how you have sinned. Tell me what you are sorry for."

The man stared at him now, unblinking, and he had to rethink his earlier opinion. Those eyes were not dead. They were filled, with pain and suffering. Close enough to dead. The priest caught his breath.

"Don't say anything," he said. He leaned forward, placed a hand over the man's heart. "Do you feel that?"

"Your hand?"

"Your heart. The way it skips beats, and continues on. You do not need absolution, my son."

"No, Father, I do. I really, really do."

Father Reilly shook his head, stood. "No. You do not. You don't know the ways of our church, so you don't know. . .God has already absolved you. You don't need my words to confirm it."

The man stood up, looking lost in the small sacristy. "Father, I don't think you get what's going on here. It's the freakin' Apocalypse, and my brother and I are trying to stop it. We need this ablution thing!"

"Absolution is the forgiveness of sins," the priest said slowly. He turned around. He couldn't look at the man. It hurt too much – memories of bleeding arms and chapped lips. "Forgiveness through mediation. Absolution can also be earned through perfect contrition. . .a true, honest sorrow for wrongs committed. Pure, unadulterated. Sorrow based on regret, and motivated without any fear of punishment."

"You've been to Hell," the priest said. "You've seen it. You are not asking absolution to avoid it. You don't need me. God sees your regret. He forgives."

The man was shaking. He raised one hand, rubbed it furiously across his face, as though brushing away tears. Father Reilly had a hint of moisture in his own eyes, but refused to brush them away. He hadn't felt this alive in years. He stared at the man, and suddenly, abruptly, a truth washed over him.

"Angels are watching over you," he said. The man shuddered, once, as though the words struck something deep within him, and then marched out of the sacristy.

Father Reilly stayed a moment later, gathered himself together. He waited for it to be exactly five o'clock, exactly time to leave. Only then did he blow out the one remaining, sputtering candle, lock the door, walk out.

The two men had left the church, but their friend remained. He stood, still, staring at the crucifix. Compelled, Father Reilly walked over to stand beside him.

"It was not the greatest sacrifice he could give," the man in the trenchcoat said. "But it was the greatest we could understand."

Father Reilly nodded, looked at the figure of the dying Christ again. He thought he heard the flutter of wings.

"You're wrong," he said lowly. "His sacrifice wasn't death. It was betrayal."

When he turned, the man in the trenchcoat was gone.


	14. Chapter 14

**AN: Keep in mind: Title Change Sunday: "From What I've Tasted of Desire" !!!**

**Oh, I can't help it, I'm just so excited. Finish the story – remarkable feet! Almost a hundred pages, in total, almost 50,000 words. . .which is to say, almost the length of a short novel, and written in four days. Hurray! So here's another chappie, for I am in a benign and giving mood.**

**In other news, because this was so hastily written, there are little things that I felt never QUITE fit in, but could be addressed. If you have any qualms – plot holes, things you think I missed, questions – feel free to post them in the reviews and I will be CERTAIN to address them along with some other notes at the very end.**

**Happy Reading!**

The first time he'd died had been pretty bad, but not horrible. The worst had come before: his father's eyes flashing yellow, the ripping feeling deep inside his body, that inevitable realization that nothing _nothing_ his brother or father did would be enough. Lying in the back of the Impala, bleeding all over her precious leather and knowing that it was too late. Knowing the hospital couldn't do anything, because somehow that demon had broken something deep inside him.

Yeah, that had been bad, but then the semi had hit, and it had just been darkness. Wandering around the hospital had been strange, unnerving, but not necessarily horrible.

The second time he'd died he hadn't even known it. Sam insisted that he'd died a hundred times, a hundred different ways, but there was no memory in his head of any of it. There was just a blankness, like he'd drunk one too many and the night had disappeared. So the second time he'd died hadn't been bad at all.

The third time he'd died was horrible. He'd been running – the first time in his life that Dean Winchester could remember just running, terrified, from anything. There was no plan to fight. There was no hope. He was just running. Pitiful. Looking for some way to stay alive. And then the tearing, and the blood, and through all of it, seeing just beyond the figure of Lilith, knowing that he was leaving Sam to her. . .

A torn leg, chunks of flesh flying, and Dean realized for the first time just what he'd done when he'd made the deal with the Crossroads Demon. This was his future, this horrible pain and sense of loss. For a moment he wished he'd never sealed the deal, that he'd let Sam die. Another tear, and he'd been in Hell.

Where he died again, and again, for forty years.

None of that compared to the fourth time he'd died, though, even though it hadn't really been him. Some future wasteland, running from a damn virus, stuck with a drugged out-angel, he'd watched as not-Sam has very calmly put a boot on not-Dean's head, and broken his neck. That had been the worst. Because even though he'd died a thousand deaths in Hell, even though he'd held those instruments of torture in his hands. . .at least he'd known that somewhere, somehow, Sammy must be okay. But here. . .he'd doomed the world, himself, his angel, and his brother. As the light had faded from not-Dean's eyes, he'd felt. . .nothing.

That cold nothing that he was certain he'd brought back from the pit.

Dying the fifth time, on the other hand, was pretty damn peaceful. As Jenine sidled up to him, a broad smile on full lips, he thought, hell, if you gotta go, might as well be like this. Sam was already on the ground beside him, lips blue. Dean had wanted to go first, had begged to go first, but as Sam had pointed out, it was impossible. For whatever asinine reasons, the vetala always took the Sam-Shape before the Dean one. So he'd been forced to watch as she'd strolled out of the shadows of the church and kissed his brother. He hadn't had to watch long, though. As soon as Sam hit the ground she. . .shimmered. . .and reappeared to him again, fishnet stockings and all.

"This won't hurt," she promised.

"Whatever," he said.

It happened between one blink and the next. There was a minute of pain. . .his lungs gasping for air, begging him, and then a soft grayness. When he opened his eyes he was standing on fluffy pink clouds.

Seriously? This was Heaven? Fluffy pink clouds?

"Sam?" Dean called out for his brother immediately. He jerked back, looking throughout the rose-colored marshmallows, but saw nothing. No sign of floppy brown hair, or hazel eyes, or patched and torn clothing. No near-giant lumbering around. Nothing. Just more cotton candy.

"I think I might have preferred Hell," Dean said. There was no way to tell which direction was which, no north, south, east or west. Just an eternity of the damn pink clouds. Experimentally, he raised one boot, set it down again. There was no resistance and then. . .there was.

"Weird. . ." Dean considered a moment. He was worried about his brother, but so far there didn't seem much danger in Heaven. . .he glanced over his shoulder, checked to make sure no one was around. He bit down on his lip, gathered all of his strength, and jumped as high as he could.

And bounced. Really, really high.

"Sweet!" he gasped. He bounced again. A third time.

"This is your version of Heaven?"

Startled by the sudden voice, he missed the landing and toppled into the whipped cream goodness. Some got into his mouth. Damn stuff even tasted good!

It was, however, a bit difficult to get out of. Dean struggled to an upright position, and turned around to see. . .a whole lot of nothing.

"Hello?" he called out. "Is somebody there?"

"Of course," the voice said again. Dean squinted. Unless he was going crazy, there was _definitely_ nobody there.

"What is this?" he asked. "Some angelic form of hide and seek?"

"Oh, for goodness sake," he heard the exasperated a tone, and then, before his eyes there was a. . .shimmering. It was heat waves coming off a long stretch of highway, back and forth in waves. Silvery light in cotton candy clouds. . .and then slowly it solidified into the figure of a woman, dressed in a long white peasanty dress, with loose blonde hair and blue eyes that matched the sky overhead. She was no age and every age. Dean's jaw dropped.

"Mom?" he asked. She smiled at him.

"Hello, baby," she said. She held out her arms. And this time, when Dean bounced, he _flew_. Because this wasn't just Mary Winchester. . .this wasn't some young, confused Hunter in love. . .this was his _mom_, with lines on her face and those warm eyes. She smelt of cinnamon.

"Mom," he clutched her body tight, tried to press as close as he could, because even thought he could see her, hear her, even _smell_ her he couldn't feel anything. It was clutching smoke. He did, however, feel a moment later, hands brushing his hair, petting at his back.

"My poor, poor baby," she said, her voice breaking. When he pulled back from the embrace, there were diamond tears glittering in his eyes. He could feel wetness in his own, as well. His mother reached up, with ghostly hand touched his cheek. "This is never what I wanted for you."

"I know," Dean said, surprised at the whimpering sound that came out. Was that him? Really? Ridiculous. He coughed, trying to bring some manliness back to the situation, because, the more he thought about it, the less likely that it was really his mother standing in front of him. It was probably just another angelic trick. Because if it was his mom. . .if Mary Winchester was really alive and wandering through heaven. . .he wasn't sure that anything would convince him to head back to earth.

"It's all my fault," Mary said. "If I hadn't made that deal. . .if I'd only told your father about it, he wouldn't. . .and you wouldn't. . ."

"It's okay, Mom," Dean said, because even though his head was screaming traptraptrap, the words still popped out. Remember the mission, he thought sternly. Think of Sammy, who's wandering around lost. Think about Cas, trapped with the crazy vetala woman. Think of the planet, which is doomed to the Apocalypse if you don't figure this out. Think of Bobby.

That was enough. He was on a mission, and there was no way that he was letting Bobby die for nothing.

"Listen, Mom," Dean reached out, tried to grab her by the shoulders, but they just melted away. Dean shook his head. "I need to find John."

"Your father?" Mary looked confused. "Of course. He's out with Sam, right now. We can go meet them?"

Of course. Dean felt like smacking him in the face. At the mention of John, Mary would assume he was talking about his father. Although. . .Absently, Dean reached down, picked a waft of raspberry froth, and stuck it in his mouth. Although. . .they had a little time, didn't they?

"Dad's in Heaven?" he asked.

"Of course," Mary said. "Why wouldn't he be?"

Dean shook his head. This wasn't right. He wasn't supposed to be looking for his father, he was supposed to be looking for

"Sammy?" Mary smiled. "Your father's gone to get him. We can be a family again, Dean. The way we were meant to. "

Dean nodded his head, cotton candy lightness in his mouth. Yeah, he thought. Yeah, that didn't sound so bad at all. And when they were all together again. . .Dad would have a plan. He and Sammy could talk, figure it out.

"Yeah," he said. "Yeah, okay."

And Dean followed his mother across the mountains of rose-painted clouds.


	15. Chapter 15

Sam had only the vaguest recollection of how they'd all come together. There was a valley, that much he knew. Similar, really to the one in. . .but wait. . .and then his father, striding across the land, bigger and stronger than Sam could ever remember him being. He'd grabbed Sam up, tight hug, warmth and scratchiness and the scent of gun oil.

He thought his father might have interrupted something. . .he thought he'd been looking for something, or someone.

"Dean?" his father had said. Sam shook his head. That didn't sound. . .it didn't seem quite right. But he did have to admit, he felt an absence at his side. He felt. . .exposed. So when his father had said that they could go visit, could go see Dean and his mother, Sam had agreed.

And now. . .now it was all of them, stretched out on picnic baskets, dragonflies dancing through the air. There shouldn't have been dragonflies, Sam thought dreamily. Dragonflies lived by the water. This was just a prairie. . .

Dean was uncharacteristically quiet. He just ate his food, slower than usual, his eyes wide, darting back and forth between their father and mother. Sam could understand. He didn't have anything to say either. It was peaceful. It was perfect.

It was just. . .there was this niggle, at the back of his throat, this scratchiness, and no matter how many gulps of iced tea he took, it just stayed there. He coughed, once, experimentally.

"You okay, Sam?" Dean asked.

He did feel good. . .better than he could remember ever having felt. No bruises, no cuts. . .but why would he be bruised? Only there was this thirst.

"Dean. . ." he said. His brother looked at him, while his mother began unwrapping massive slabs of brownies. "Weren't we. . .weren't we doing something?"

"Sam, I don't"

A flash of lightning in the clearing. The was strange, Sam thought. There weren't any clouds. No thunder, either, just that single fork of lightning, touching down in the middle of nothing. John Winchester stood up, grabbed the gun at his side.

"Mary," he said, his voice tight and controlled. "Stay with the boys. I'll go check this out."

Sam sat, one leg slightly bent, watched as his father walked off into the prairie.

"Dean. . ."

His brother was up, just barely, on hands and knees, crawling after their father. Sam flipped over on his belly, watching the slow progress of his brother. "Dean, what are you doing?"

"I don't know," Dean had his eyes squeezed shut, beads of sweat standing out on his forehead. "Something's wrong, Sammy. . .something. . ."

Sam tried to stand up, to help his brother. But Dean was right Something was wrong, something was pulling his body down, making each limb heavier than it should be. He twitched a little, managed to fling one arm out ahead of him. It landed, flopped dangerously, a dead fish in the middle of the valley. Fingers clench. Dig in to loamy soil. Pull forward. A dry riiiippp as his jeans catch on a twig. Deep breath. Turn head to Dean.

His brother was making better progress, still managing to keep himself in a crawling position. Sweat tracked down his neck now, stained the back of his shirt. Sam heaved another breath and pulled himself forward. In the motion, he glanced behind them. Nothing. No picnic, no blonde woman, no granite chunks of brownie.

"Dean"

Nothing came out. He licked his lips, tried again

"Dnnnn."

And then a hand, heavy, meaty, frightening on his shoulder. Some kind of demon, he assumed. He closed his eyes.

"Not heaven," he gasped.

"Open your eyes, Sam."  
He shook his head. No doubt about it, this was _not_ heaven. And it might not be hell, but he was just getting a hold of himself again, and was terrified to open his eyes again, to see himself back in that valley with a mother, father, and brother and

"Dammit, Sam, just open your eyes!"

When he did open his eyes, he found himself facing a pair of scuffed boots, side by side with pennyloafers. He groaned.

"Dude, get up." Another hand joined the first, yanked him to his feet. Grabbed his chin, jerked his head down so that he was staring into green eyes. "Hey there, Sleeping Beauty. Not exactly the best time to take a nap, you know."

Sam shook his head. Things were clearing, somehow. They'd died, he remembered. Gone to heaven. Met their. . .no. No, that hadn't been right.

"Are you well, Samuel?" Castiel was peering at him with the strangest expression on his face. Sam blinked. Well, maybe that was why it was strange. Because the normally stoic angel had any expression at all.

"Yeah, just. . .where are we?"

He took a moment, finally, to look around the place they were in. No longer an endless valley, buzzing with life, but what looked to be the over-decorated sitting room of a mansion. Baroque gilding, he noted. Painted ceiling. Vases that were meant to look more expensive than they really were. Pretentious.

"In heaven," Dean scoffed. "Or at least, the angel penitentiary thing. So much for the big plan. I don't know how we're supposed to find John in his place."

No answer. Sam ceased his survey of the room to look at the angel, who was actually scuffing his feet into the polished tiles. The angel smiled at that, pointed to a small figure rocking in the corner. Long matted brown hair, no shoes.

"I am familiar with this land," Castiel said. "I have found the prophet for you."

Dean grinned, hugged the angel tight against his chest. "Well, praise Jesus and Hallelujah!" he said, before galloping off to the man. Sam followed a hearbeat later.

"Hey, John?" Dean stood, hands deep in pockets, in front of the strange figure. "John?" Sam knelt down beside him, reached out a hand, gently shook the man's shoulders.

"Mr. John?" he asked, swallowing a lump in his throat, not quite sure what to call the holy man. The touch had the desired reaction, as the man jerked up. He had no eyes, but shook his head frantically from side to side, as though trying to look at both brothers at the same time.

"Who the hellmonkeys are you?"

Dean paused for a moment, recovered his equilibrium. Cleared his throat. "I'm Dean, this is my brother Sam. We came to ask you some questions about the Apocalypse."

"Oh, yeah," John's weathered face broke into a smile. Sam peered more closely. He was torn apart now, but good humor shone through underneath. "That was a great film, weren't it? Who made it. . .that Mel GIbberson guy. Heard he's gone coocoo bananas."

"Um. . .no," Dean shook his head. "The real Apocalypse. You know, angels against demons?"

"Oh, you're read my work," John continued to smile. "Great. The early stuff or later? Because I have to be honest, after I got into the. . .good stuff. . .the writing took a backseat, if you know what I mean."

Sam leaned forward. "How do you know English?"

"Who says that I do?" John asked. He smiled. He had perfect teeth, which was a little strange, contrasted with the overall haggard appearance. "You're in Limbo, boy. There was never a Tower of Babel here."

Interesting. Sam shoved that thought to the back of his mind, intent on filing it away for later.

"So, back to the Apocalypse," Dean said, glaring at his younger brother. "How do we stop it?"

John frowned. "Well, did the Four Horsemen ride out on their steeds?"

"Yes," Sam said.

"The Witnesses rise?"

"Yeah," Dean said.

"Babylon taking her sweet time strolling the world?"

"Yes," Cas said.

John shrugged. "Then I reckon it's Apocalypto time, sorry boys."

"There's got to be a way to stop it," Sam said desperately. "It can't just be about us saying yes."

"Look, all I can say," John said, stretching out, "is that I was high off my keister when I wrote that book. But divinely inspired, you know what I mean?"

Sam looked suspiciously at the prophet. "Why aren't you in Heaven proper?"

"Because," John said, an ugly twist to his lips. "In case you haven't noticed, God's gone in Sabbatical, and nobody heads in without his say-so. Not even glorious prophets."

An angry gleam in his eyes, now. "Which is why the Apocalypse won't do you fuckers any good, anyway," he said. "Whole point is to get you lot into Heaven. But nobody's getting in now, anyway," a harsh, bitter laugh, "Eternity in this cesspool, instead." Arms wide. "Lord be blessed!"

A hand touched Sam's arm, and a moment later he found himself in another room, identical to the first.

"Why are all Prophets lunatics?" Dean asked. Sam smiled a bit at that. "Well," Dean said. "So much for the big plan to talk to the author. Cas, I guess you better just beam us out."

"I . . .cannot."

Dean frowned. "What do you mean, you can't? That was the plan, Cas, remember? We find John, we figure out a plan, you gank us out of here? You said you could do it!"

"Yes," Castiel sighed. "But I am not. . .here. . .voluntarily."

A sinking feeling began in Sam's stomach, and once, just once, he wished that his obtuse brother could figure something out before he did.

"What do you mean?" Understanding flared across Dean's face. "Was it those douchebag angels? Did they send you here?"

"No."

"Was this Zachariah? I bet it was. I'll kill him. I'll fucking kill him!"

"No. Dean. . ."

"Really, Cas, I'm all for sticking with your family, God knows it, but these guys are dicks!"

"Dean," Sam sighed, put one hand to his forehead. "Would you just let the angel explain?"

Dean huffed, once, twice, paced in a small circle. Put both his hands on his hips. Blew out his cheeks. Pursed his lips. Raised an eyebrow. Castiel just stood there, hands in his pockets. Dean raised his arms.

"Well? What?"

"I died," Castiel said lowly. Sam nodded. He'd figured as much. Dean, clearly, had not. He pratically had to pick his jaw up off the floor.

"Wha. . .I though nothing could kill angels," Dean said. "Except another. . .those DICKS!"

"It was not one of my brothers," Castiel muttered.

"The vetala," Sam blurted out, because really, this was taking too long. "The vetala killed you, didn't she?"

Castiel looked up, guilty. Dean's cheek twitched. One lip slowly curved up into a smile, and he clapped the surprised angel on the back.

"I should be pissed," Dean said thoughtfully. "But really, Cas, I'm proud of you. Shoulda popped the cherry with someone who, you know, doesn't cause instant death. So. Which version? I bet it was the overalls one, right? She was hot, right?"

Castiel shifted. "I do not wish to talk about this."

"All right, all right," Dean said magnanimously, patting the angel's back. Over Castiel's shoulder, though, he winked at Sam and gave his brother a thumb's up. Sam sighed. Oblivious was really too generous a word to describe Dean. When they got back in their bodies, and at a safe distance from Castiel, he was really going to have to explain some

Wait a second. When they got back in their bodies. . .he turned toward the angel. He knew his face had to be contorted by panic. His stomach twisted. "Castiel, where did you leave our bodies?"

"In the motel, as requested," Castiel said.

"Yeah, now we just have to figure out how to get back there," Dean frowned. "Hey, wait a second. Cas, you didn't do the nasty in that motel room, did you? With us just lying there?"

"Bigger problem," Sam bitched, because really, how could his brother possibly still be thinking about sex? "If our bodies are down there, and there's nobody in them, what's going to stop Lucifer and Michael from just hopping in?"

Dean paled, all the color running away at once. "Cas?" he asked, his voice strangled. "Can they do that?"

Castiel considered. "I do not know," he said finally. Another beat. "It's possible that your departure would be considered tacit acceptance."

Dean pounded a fist into the table. Sam frowned. He didn't remember there being a table there. . .but then, maybe his mind was still fuzzy from the heavenvision.

"So what do we do, then?" Dean asked. "Just sit here and wait for some wandering angel to beam us down to earth?"

"It is probable that one of the angels will seek to engage us," Castiel said.

And so they waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Which took its toll on Dean. While Sam took advantage of the respite to nap, and while Castiel quietly and stoically sat in a chair, the older Winchester stomped, paced, punched walls threw random, unoffensive inanimate objects, and kicked at anything that happened into his way.

"Making physical noise will not alert the angels to our presence," Castiel said mildly.

Sam just closed his eyes. Eventually the mania would wear off, his brother would calm down, sit down, and sleep. The edge just needed to wear off.

An hour later, Sam discovered a rather unpleasant fact about being dead: no end to energy.

"Should we stop him?" Sam asked finally, when Dean had succeeded in pulling every spring out of the couch. "Before he hurts himself?"

Castiel raised one eyebrow. "How much harm can be done? He's already dead."

"Very funny," Dean snarled.


	16. Chapter 16

**AN: And so begins the comic portion of our little tale. Here's a preview. . .two more tomorrow.**

**And, just for future reference, I love Cas. I adore Cas. I do not wish to harm or hurt the angel in any way. That being said. . .it is kind of funny.**

It was impossible to tell how much time had passed. Enough that Castiel had taken off both trenchcoat and tie. Enough that Dean had attempted to use springs from the couch to pick the lock, to use the legs of the table to batter down the door, and had even resorted to trying to dig through hardware. Sam wondered idly whether the same amount of time had passed on earth. He wondered if a poor maid had happened upon their rotting bodies yet.

He'd asked Castiel, a few times, if it would be possible to leave to find John, if they weren't trying to leave altogether. Cas shrugged, said, with an honesty that surprised Sam, "Are we even certain that he is here?"

It was in this indeterminate time that the door finally opened, and Gabriel stepped through, a knowing smile on his face.

"Well, howdy boys!" he said jovially.

Dean dove for the door, but it closed behind the renegade angels back. For his part, Gabriel just smiled at them all knowingly, his good humor and equilibrium apparently recovered since the last time they'd met.

"Seems like you got yourselves in a bit of a bind," Gabriel mused. "I wonder how Michael will react when I tell him where his favorite vessel's gotten himself off to."

This surprised Sam. He'd just assumed that the angels would have known of their deaths, some kind of magical angel radar.

"Just get us out of here, zap us back into our bodies," Dean seethed. Gabriel itched at his chin, seemed to consider.

"I don't know about that," he said slowly. "I seem to recall that you boys weren't exactly. . .hospitable the last time we met."

Sam winced, remembering the jerusalem's oil, Dean's taunting. If only he hadn't been a car at the time. . .he'd always been a bit more diplomatic than his hot-headed brother.

Gabriel sauntered around the wrecked room, both hands held idly behind his back. It was only when he stood in front of Castiel that he really reacted. One step back, a jerk of the chin, not so much really, but a drastic loss in control for an angel.

"What's this?" Gabriel said, gasping in mockery. "Castiel? With your wings clipped? Oh me, oh my, the plot thickens now, doesn't it?"

"Zap us back, Gabriel," Dean heaved. Sam turned, saw his brother frantically smearing blood over the wall. Huh. Sam thought. Why hadn't we considered that earlier?

But Gabriel just laughed. "Please, Dean, don't insult me," he said. "I'm an archangel. Just just _an_ archangel – one of the four. You might be able to banish an angel with your little mortal blood on earth, but you sure aren't kicking _me_ out of limbo."

"Limbo?" Sam lifted his eyebrows. "So we didn't make it into heaven at all?"

"Don't make me laugh," Gabriel said. He laughed anyway. "Nobody's made it into Heaven. . .not since Daddy wandered off, anyway. All those souls, just wandering around limbo. . .kind of sad, when you get down to it."

Dean slammed his hand against the sigil, but just as the angel had predicted, nothing happened.

"Okay," Gabriel said. He nodded his head. "Okay. I'll tell you boys what. I'll send you back down to those monkey meat suits you have waiting for you. On one condition: you say yes."

"Go to hell," Dean growled.

"Been there. Not all it's cracked up to be," Gabriel said.

"Okay," Sam said.

Dean and Castiel, as though controlled by one mind, jerked around to look at him. Sam ignored their betrayed gazes, kept his own focused on Gabriel. "Deal," he said. "Now send us back. Actually . . ."

Not even half a second Sam came to, gasping and jerking around in his bed. It was like every muscle had been electrified, jerking into its own life, no control. Calm down, Sam, he reminded himself. Calm, calm. Slowly he got his breathing back under control.

"What the hell, Sam?" Dean was looming over him now, hands clenched into tight fists. Sam raised his own hands in surrender.

"Dean, give me a break," he said. "So I lied. Big deal."

"You. . .what?"

"I lied. Angels don't seem to quite grasp the concept. So I figured I'd give it a try. I lied. And it worked."

Dean appeared to consider for a moment. Nodded. "huh." He said. "Wonder why I didn't think of that?"

Sam sat up, slowly, slowly. Everything ached, felt rusty and used. Carefully, he moved each finger, each toe. Everything seemed to be working. He rolled his head around, shoulder to shoulder. He swore he could feel each vertebrate crack as he did so. Beside him, he felt the weight of the bed shift as Dean sat beside him, went through the same little ritual of survival.

"He really did send us back," Dean said.

"Ten fingers, ten toes. . ." Sam took in a deep breath, held it, count to ten, let it out. "Everything seems to be working."

"Angels can be pretty dumb."

Appropriately enough, at that moment came a moan from the second bed. Castiel was stretched out across it, arms and legs spread out in the sign of the cross. His eyes were still closed, his face contorted in pain. Dean was beside him in an instant, Sam only fractionally behind.

"Cas. . .Cas, you okay?" Dean asked. He pushed at the angel's shoulder, trying to get any response other than those gut-wrenching moans. Sam knelt down, scanning. . .nothing seemed wrong. . .and why would Gabriel have sent Cas back broken?

"Hurts," Castiel mumbled. His jaw drew tight, and another shiver wracked his body. Sam put one hand to his forehead. Cool. No fever, not sick. While Dean continued to grasp the angel's wrist and scan his face, Sam leaned over, parted the tan trenchcoat. Gently put his hands on the angel's abdomen, his chest, his shoulders.

"Does any of that hurt?" he asked.

"Stomach," Castiel said. His eyes finally popped open. They searched the ceiling for an instant, before finally alighting on Dean's face. "I might be. . .dying," he said.

"Again?" Dean asked.

Castiel frowned. "Perhaps," he said. He sat up halfway, pushed Sam's hands off. "It is. . .better now," he said. "Perhaps you should just leave me here. I will die in peace."

"Cas, you're not dying," Dean said obstinately. "Whatever's wrong with you, we can fix it. We just have to figure out what it is."

Castiel sighed. "It is a constant ache in my stomach," he said. "It is not that bad. I am just. . .not accustomed to pain."

A pain in his stomach. Sam laughed, let out a little breath he hadn't even known he'd been holding. His brother turned to glare at him. If looks could kill, Dean Winchester would have smote his younger brother right then. Sam giggled again.

"It's okay guys. Cas, I think. . .I think you're hungry."

"Famine was defeated," Castiel said.

"No, regular hungry. Like normal humans."

"But he's not human," Dean said. "He's an angel. Angels don't eat."

"I died," Castiel said. "Angels don't die, either."

"Come on," Sam said, finally standing up. "There was a diner just across from Father Reilly's church. I'm sure after we get him something to eat, he'll be as good as new."


	17. Chapter 17

The phone would not stop ringing. It just sat there. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Alexis glared at it. Fucking phone. Ring, ring. She reached out a hand, picked up the receiver, and slammed it back down. Take that, bitchass.

"What do you think you're doing?" the battleaxe growled.

Great. Alexis popped a bubble. Pretty big one. She was always getting caught. Every time she did anything even remotely outside their fifty pound Employee Handbook, she got caught. It was, like, there were surveillance cameras. Just for her, though. Everyone else got away with it.

"Sorry," she said. "It kept ringing. And we don't have a hostess, tonight."

"So YOU pick it up!" Battleaxe said. Alexis rolled her eyes. As if. The day they paid her to be a hostess, she'd do the work. Otherwise, she did everything she had. She waited the tables. She smiled pretty at the trailer trash. She brought them food. Sometimes she even wiped up after them. And she didn't get shit for tips, so really, Battleaxe should be glad she still worked there.

"Whatever," Alexis said. Pop number two.

Granted, there wasn't anybody _in_ the diner at the moment, so she probably _could_ have answered the phone, but who would have delivered an order, anyway? John was home with the flu. Or so he _said_. She thought he was just avoiding her.

Figured. They'd made out in the freezer the night before, and he'd be AWOL. Men were all such jackasses.

And as if John weren't bad enough, Luke wouldn't stop calling her. Even though she'd _said_ she didn't want to go out with him anymore. God, some guys just couldn't take a hint.

The little bell over the door rang. Almost as annoying as the phone. Not quite.

Pop.

Well, this was interesting. Three men walking in, and hot damn, they were _hot_. Alexis perked up a little. John could stay home with his cold or whatever. Ignoring the Battleaxe, who was apparently still trying to talk to her, Alexis walked over to the booth the three men had sat in.

"Hi, I'm Alexis, I'll be your server tonight," she said, smiling at them. She handed three menus out. One men held his upside down. Weirdo.

"Thanks," Hottie McHotterson said, and shot her a smile. Whew. Alexis could feel a stupid little grin stealing over her face.

"You're welcome," she said, and curtseyed. Great. Now she would be _really_ red. She wondered how the red showed up under foundation. She'd never actually thought to look.

"Dude. Jailbait," Gorgeous McGorgeous said. Hottie McHOtterson just shrugged.

"I'll give you a few minutes to look at those," Alexis said, and ran to the bathroom. She slammed the door shut behind her – _God_, Battleaxe was _still_ talking. Like, get a grip, lady, nobody wants to talk to you! Alexis stared at herself in the dirty little bathroom mirror. Somebody should really clean that. They needed to, like, hire a ex-convict or something. One of those sexy guys, like in the movies, with all the tattooes. He could take a toothbrush to it and get it nice a clean.

She examined herself critically. Well, she didn't look _too_ red. . .although that stupid zit on her chin was standing out more than usual. Don't pick it, too pick it, she reminded herself. You'll only make it worse.

At least her hair looked nice. She patted it. She'd bought the $10 dye this time, and it worked _way_ better than the $5 stuff. She undid one button on her blouse. Luke had always said she had a great rack. She wished she'd worn her cutest bra – the polka dot black one with all the lace. But no, she'd just put on one of those trashy white underwire things her more always bought. Like, jeez, Mom, welcome to the 21st century. It's called a push-up bra. What she really wanted was one of those new ones, with the special warming gel. . .

Anyway, back to McGorgeous and McHotterson.

"Just. . .pick whatever sounds good," McHotterson was saying. "Maybe try something simple for your first go. . .nothing with the chili pepper next to it."

"Hi, sirs. . .er, gentlemen," Alexis stammered. As soon as she started talking all three heads swiveled to look at her, and holy JESUS. She wished there were men like this at school. All she had were scrawny emo boys with bad skin. These guys looked like freakin' models. She quivered a little. "What can I get for you?"

"Caesar Salad and a cup of chicken noodle soup," said McGorgeous.

"I'll have the ribs and potatoes," said McHotterson.

"I would like whatever offers the most sustenance," said the Weirdo. But Weirdo had the sexist bedroom eyes that Alexis had _ever_ seen, so she supposed he had to be Sexy McWeirdo, after all.

"Um. . .I don't. . ." Alexis thought for a minute. Sustenance. . .what did that mean? Wasn't that, like, the farming thing, where you used trees, or something?"

"Just. . .bring him the meatloaf platter," said McGorgeous.

"Good one, Sam," McHotterson approved. "Meatloaf. Solid."

"Okay," Alexis said. Was it hot in there? Was it just her? She fanned herself with her notebook. McHotterson raised one eyebrow. Oh my God. Would they laugh if she asked for an autograph? Or better yet, a picture.

"Are you okay?" asked McGorgeous.

"Oh yes," Alexis said. Sure, her mouth hurt a little from smiling so wide, and her legs and belly had turned to jelly. This must be what love felt like. It was really, really different than being shoved up against the frozen veggies by John.

McHotterson coughed. McGorgeous handed her the menus.

The. . .what?

Oh shit! Alexis grabbed the menus, brought them up to cover her flaming face as she ran back to the kitchen. Get a grip, Al, she ordered herself.

"Orders?" Joe asked. God. Trust Joe to bring someone back to earth. He was about the ugliest old man _ever_. Alexis took a deep breath. Orders. Right. What had they. . .

Oh, God. She'd forgotten what they'd ordered. She was going to have to go back out there. Which she couldn't. Because she'd just. . .

"Caesar salad, noodle soup, meatloaf and ribs," she said, all quick and rushed together.

"No prob," Joe said. "Put together the salad and ladle out the soup. Meatloaf and ribs'll take a minute."

"Okay," Alexis said. She was still trembling. Joe raised an eyebrow at her, idly washed his hands.

"What's going on out there that's got you so spooked?" he asked. "Kids you know from school?"

"No way," Alexis said. That would be just _too_ embarrassing. But how to tell Joe – oh God, no. Oh, no way. He was actually going out to look. Too much. She covered her face with her hands, heard the minute he stepped back into the kitchen with a gruff chuckle.

"You got yourself a little crush, there, babyface?" Joe asked. Alexis didn't answer. This was really the worst night ever. She was _so_ going to quit. "Don't get too caught up. Look like drifters. 'Sides, they're too old for you."

Oh, that did it! Alexis dropped her hands, straightened her shoulders. "I have an old soul," she shot back at him. Which only earned her another laugh. Stupid old fart.

Still. Old soul or not, she thought she'd just. . .you know. . .hang out in the kitchen until the food was finished. Battleaxe would probably let her know if anyone else came in.

Joe, apparently, was not okay with her just chilling in the kitchen, however. He stared at her as he coated the ribs with barbecue sauce. "Shouldn't you check on your boyfriends' water or something?"

"God, don't tell me what to do. You're not my dad!" Alexis griped, but he did have a point. If she wanted any tip at all she'd better make sure they weren't, like dehydrating out there or anything. So she grabbed the pitcher, took a deep breath, and girded herself.

"So one hundred percent human, now?" McHotterson was asking. "You sure?"

"It makes sense," McGorgeous said. He pursed his lips. Alexis licked hers. "I mean, he was already halfway fallen. Giving in to the vetala must have completed it."

"That sucks," McHotterson said. He clapped Sexy McWeirdo on the shoulder. "I'm really sorry, man."

"Do you guys need any water or. . ." Alexis took a deep breath. They were looking at her again. "anything. . ." she finished.

"I think we're pretty good," McGorgeous said. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," she said. Okay. She'd handled that pretty well. Very mature. Now just turn, walk, steady. . .

"Excuse me, beautiful, could we actually get three cups of coffee?"

Oh my god. He'd called her beautiful. Oh god.

"Sure," She said, but didn't turn around, because seriously, foundation or no, her face had to be the color of a lobster.

"Shut up," she said to Joe, the minute she entered the kitchen. Wisely, for once, the cook didn't say anything to her. She stole away to the bathroom again after delivering the cups of coffee, stared at herself in the mirror. Beautiful, really? Sure, that's what Luke had said, and John, but they were just _boys_. She pursed her lips, pouted sexily, fluffed her hair. Yeah, she was pretty beautiful. She wondered if the three beautiful men were _all_ falling in love with her. Which heart would she have to break?

"So we've just go to find this vetala, right?" McGorgeous said. "That shouldn't be too hard. Just look for a string of suicides."

Alexis started putting the plates in front of the men. They all smiled at her, but seemed a bit distracted. She took a little longer than she probably had to.

"I'm thinking Vegas, Sammy," McHotterson said. Sexy McWeirdo just frowned at his meatloaf.

"Is something wrong?" Alexis asked. He didn't look at her.

"I cannot eat this with my hands," he said. McHotterson sighed, laughed a little, and grabbed the fork in front of McWeirdo. He pressed it into the other man's hand, patted him on the shoulder.

"It's called civilization, my friend," he said. "Watch Sam. Do as I say, not as I do."

"Okay," Alexis said. "Just. . .let me know if you need anything."

"Of course, thank you," McGorgeous said, and smiled. Alexis smiled back. God, he was so _polite_.

"ALEXIS!"

Oh, shit. Battleaxe. What could she _possibly_ be so pissed about. Alexis turned around, only to see that her boss was stepping out of the refridgerator. With something black, polka-dotted, and lacy in her hands. Oh shit. Alexis scurried over. If Battleaxe told her mom she was _so_ grounded for, like, life.

So for the next thirty minutes, Alexis apologized profusely, promised to take a dock in pay, to sweep and mop, to freakin' _close_ the dump for a month, just don't tell mom, please, please, _please_, don't tell mom.

When she was finally released from the lectures and arguments, the booth was empty. Alexis' heart fell a little bit.

Until she saw the tip. $10. Sweet!


	18. Chapter 18

**AN: I know. It's sick. I'm sorry. I also find it hilarious.**

**I love Castiel, truly, I do. But. . .come on. It's a little hilarious. Besides, there needed to be a TOUCH of humor, in the middle of all the AH-APOCALYPSE!!!! Stuff. **

"I think the waitress was sweet on you," Dean told Castiel as they all hopped into the Impala again after the definitely sub-par diner meal. Castiel cocked his head, frowned, but for once didn't ask for an explanation. Sam just shook his head.

"Dude, she was, what, fifteen? Isn't that a little sick? Even for you?"

"Hey, in three years she's gonna be a looker," Dean said, a leer on his face. "And easy. Sometimes a little investment is a good thing."

"Gross," Sam said again.

In the back, a low moan. Dean glanced in the rearview mirror.

"You okay back there, Cas?" he asked. "Food not agreeing with you?"

"I do not know," Castiel said. He was frowning a little, perplexed. One hand was curled gently around his lower abdomen. "There are. . .little waves of pain."

Dean giggled. "Dude," he said. "Sounds like PMS." He grinned over at his brother. "You hear that, Sammy? Angel PMS."

"Dean, knock it off," Sam said. He twisted around in his seat to look at the angel. He seemed okay. . .mostly. Probably just the gross diner food. And the whole, losing all of his angelic powers in one day.

Which still didn't make sense to Sam. Okay, sure, he'd been losing powers ever since. . .since Lucifer had appeared, and he'd been blown to smithereens. Which Sam didn't understand to begin with, but he'd just had to accept as basic fact. So he'd been losing power. . .first the ability to heal others, then decreased time-traveling mojo, then the inability to exorcise demons with a look. . .but still. He'd still been an angel. As estranged from his brothers as he'd been, he still had a family.

Now. . .no wings, no self-healing, no angel voices in his head. It had to be hard. Sam sighed, looked out the window. And unfortunately, the crazy angel had decided to ally himself with the Winchesters, who were, let's face it, pretty much useless at comforting someone after loss. Dean probably wouldn't even notice, and if he did, would offer a beer. And Sam. . .well, he was still trying to ignore his own thirst for demon blood, so really, not much help there, either.

They pulled into the motel room. Sam checked in and grabbed the keys while Dean helped out the still-shaky angel.

"What kind of a room?" the motel manager was one of those scruffy, overweight men, with stains on a shirt that never disappeared. He and Dean had run into them plenty of times over the years. The gross guy who smelled of a mix between bottled pasta sauce and jaegar, who would never be anything more than a night manager, and who apparently didn't care. They were usually the easiest to deal with. No questions, no concerns, just a swipe of the credit card and they were homefree.

"Double," Sam said. "And, uh, can we get a cot?" He hadn't thought to ask Castiel if he wanted his own room. It seemed kind of a moot point, though, as he doubted the angel would even understand what he was asking. They'd have to figure out the room situation eventually, though. There was no way they were going to swap sleeping on a cot for the rest of. . .well, the rest of whatever, until the Apocalypse.

"No prob," The man said. He farted, yawned, scratched his ass. "Cot is over in that closet. Grab it yourself if you want it."

Great service, Sam though drolly as he carried the thing outside. And, of course, he realized, they were on the second story. "212" he shouted at Cas and Dean. Neither of whom came to help with the unwieldy cot, courtesy having never been branded into the Winchester list of morals.

He was the first one in the room, dropped the cot, and immediately headed back out to grab his things from the Impala. Dean, he noticed, was carrying his own duffel and the weapons, while Cas walked empty-handed.

Sam ran one hand along the sleek side of the Impala. "Hey, baby," he said lowly. He cherished these moments alone with the car. Because, of course, he couldn't voice any affection for the machine when Dean was around, loudly proclaiming his own undying devotion. But the Impala meant very nearly as much to him as it did to Dean. It was home. It was safety. It had been around longer than he and Dean, and been involved in more battles with demons and dark forces than they. It was comforting, to think that this simple _object_ had survived demons, werewolves, wendigos, pagan gods, ghost trucks, and God knew what else. It had taken beatings, but always got put back together again.

It was a beautiful night out. Stars. Clear. The kind of night that you knew, just knew, that if you said a prayer it went straight up to Heaven and God's ears.

Sam had always said his bedtime prayers.

_Now I lay me down to sleep I pray the Lord my soul to keep if I should die before I wake I pray the Lord my soul to take_

Always just like that, one long run-on sentence , no punctuation, because that's the way that Dean had taught him. He'd kept saying the prayer, years after he learned that Dean didn't say it himself. He'd even gone to church, a few times, in college. More, after he'd met Jessica. And on clear nights like this, he'd always offered a little hello to the Big Guy Upstairs.

Tonight, though. Sam sighed. Tonight, though, he just couldn't believe that anybody up there was listening. To think, thousands of souls just wandering around limbo, no where to go. To think, angels fighting against angels, Death, Famine, and War walking the earth. . .it was pretty hard to believe in a God in the middle of all that.

So Sam didn't pray. Just grabbed his duffel bag, locked up the Impala, and shuffled back up to the room. Stepped in the door and

"Holy Fuck What Is That Smell?" Sam dropped the duffel the minute he walked in, both hands flying to cover his nose. His eyes were tearing up. No kidding. He was actually _crying_ over a smell. Castiel glanced over at him guiltily. Dean looked over expressionlessly.

"Sam, go get some more towels," Dean said, his voice flat. Sam's eyes widened. Seriously, the room smelled like. . .like. . .shit!

"What _is_ that?" he asked again. Castiel looked guilty.

"I am sorry," he said. "I was unaware"

Dean put a hand over the angel's own. "You don't have to apologize," Dean said. "Sam, towels. Now."

"Is there a demon here?" Sam looked around. There had to be something. . .he checked over his brother and the angel. No sign of struggle, no blood. Had they just gotten a shitty (no pun intended) room? It looked fine. . .fine for one of their ridiculously rundown motels, actually. Dean stood up, patted Castiel on the shoulder, and stomped toward the door.

"Sam, outside. Now."

Sam had never liked following orders. Not their fathers, and certainly not Dean's. He did, however, recognized Death in his brother's eyes, so after one last, incredulous look around the cesspool (Cas still sitting on the bed, still looking embarrassed) he walked outside.

"Can't you ever just shut your piehole?" Dean hissed furiously as soon as they were outside. Sam shook his head.

"Dean, _what_ is going on?"

"Cas is still new to this whole human thing," Dean said, seeming to relax a little. "You saw how he was when he was hungry. Sometimes he just doesn't get the signals his body is giving him."

Sam stared at him. Didn't understand how that explained the horrible stench in their. . .oh. Oh. _Oh._

"The angel shat himself."

The blank wall closed down over Dean's face again. "Sam, get the towels." He said.

"What are you going to do?" Sam asked, because, somehow, the idea of his brother getting down and wiping an angel's ass didn't seem possible.

"I'm going to take care of the situation," Dean said, guarded.

"Yeah, but it's. . ." Sam looked around, suddenly realizing that maybe, just maybe, the conversation wasn't appropriate for everyone. Nobody seemed to be around. "It's not our usual clean-up, Dean. No blood, guts or glory. It's just. . .you know. . .poo."

"I've cleaned up poo before, Sam."

Raised eyebrow. Dean sighed.

"Who do you think changed your diapers?"

Oh. Sam hadn't thought about that.

"Trust me," Dean said, and now a little smile was tugging at his lips. "If I could clean up after your constipated, diahreatic messes, I can clean up after Cas."

"Um. . .sorry. . .I'll get the towels."

So he did. And when he returned, Castiel was in the shower, and Dean was throwing some suspicious-smelling garbage bags into the dumpster. Wordlessly, Sam handed over the towels. Dean just nodded.

"So. . .what are we going to do?" Sam asked. How exactly did he ask his brother if they were going to have to buy adult diapers? Where did one _find_ adult diapers?

"What do you mean?" Dean asked. Sam noticed that the bed that Cas had been sitting on had been stripped of the comforter. He decided not to mention it.

"I mean. . .well. . .how are we going to take him out in public if he's going to. . .you know. . ."

"For Christ's sake, Sam, he's not a retard!" Dean explained. "We just have to potty train him."

"P-potty train him?"

"Yeah," Dean said, settling himself back onto the comforter-less bed and flicking on the television. "Teach him how to recognize the signs."

"You want to potty train an angel?"

"Hey, I potty trained you, didn't I?" Dean grinned. "And you almost _never_ wet the bed now."

"Shut up, Dean," Sam said, blushing again. He sat down on the other bed. "It was just that once. After those witches in Portland. I was paralyzed from the waist down. It wasn't my fault."

"Uh-huh," Dean flipped through channels at an almost frightening pace, landing finally on a football game. College, of course, in August.

"Hey, Sam."

"Yeah."

"It took me five days to teach you not to take a dump in your pants. Five bucks says I can teach Cas in three."


	19. Chapter 19

**AN: Okay, a much nicer part of the whole "Cas becomes human" little arc. And a little angst. And. . .oh no, Sammy has a "plan" again. **

Sam closed the top to the computer, carefully unplugged it. Seemed like Dean had been right about the vetala currently residing in Las Vegas. There had been 117 deaths there over two days. . .enough that it was the very first thing that popped up after he'd typed "suffocation" into the search engine.

"Told you so," Dean said smugly as they loaded everything into the Impala, moments later. Sam rolled his eyes.

"Fine, Dean," he said. "Your crapshot guess that you only made because you've always wanted to go to Vegas was right. Congratulations."

Dean flashed a grin his way, patted the hood of his baby twice. "All right," he said. "Ready to go?"

Sam looked around the empty parking lot. "Where's Cas?"

Dean jerked a finger toward the motel room. "Bathroom," he said. "Come on, Sam, you remember the first rule: always go before you go."

"Right," Sam said.

They led weird lives. There was no doubt about that. Ever since he'd hopped in the Impala with Dean and they'd hunted down the Woman in White they'd had really weird lives. He had to say, though, that one of the weirdest moments ever was watching his brother toilet-training a former angel.

Dean was good at it, too, that was the most surprising. He'd been calm and collected the night before, cleaning up the room, reassuring the angel that it was nothing to be ashamed of, going through some suggestions. All with the practiced air of someone who had done it before.

Which, according to Dean, he had.

Though, when Sam thought about it, that was incredibly sad. After all, how old were most kids when they were potty-trained. Two? Three? Which would have meant that Dean was only six or seven himself. He could remember Dean taking care of him when he was younger, of course. Could remember his brother, tongue sticking out one side of his mouth as he carefully cut a Tylenol pill in half with a knife as long as his forearm. Could remember the baths running, the endless bowls of cereal and peanut butter sandwiches. He could remember the bedtime stories, the lesson on tying shoelaces.

It was just that. . .the other things he remembered were so much clearer. The night his father had cooked that big spaghetti dinner, and they'd all eaten it together. Sam had dropped a meatball, and nobody had said a word.

Or when they'd gone to Chuck E. Cheese. Sam had crawled into the balls and refused to come out. Eventually his father had crawled in, way too big to fit, and pulled him out, screaming and laughing.

The first day of school, his father proudly handing him a packed bag lunch and patting him on the head.

The thing was, he remembered almost _everything_ his father had done. Because they had been events. They had been special moments.

The things Dean had done. . .they were just normal life. He'd never once considered it.

Eventually Castiel made his way down, and climbed into the back seat. "I flushed twice," he said solemnly. "Two flushes for number two."

Sam couldn't help it. Despite Dean's murderous glare, he cracked up.

They didn't make it all the way to Las Vegas that day. Eventually even Dean had to give in to exhaustion, and they pulled in to a motel. Sam stood slowly, working out kinks in just about every muscle. He went in to get the keys, and when he came out, saw Dean leaning on the car, having a seemingly intense conversation with the Impala.

"Well, if you are going to be sick, get out of my car to do it," he said. Sam sighed. He'd known the patience and goodwill couldn't last forever. By the time Sam had reached the car (one room again: nobody had complained the night before) his brother had managed to maneuver the recalcitrant former angel out of the car.

"What's going on?" Sam asked. Dean sighed.

"Damn fool angel thinks he's dying again."

"My God, my God, oh why have you forsaken me?"

Sam frowned. "Is he delirious?"

"I don't know," Dean rolled his eyes. "Grab the duffels, would you? I don't think I can grab them and his heavy ass. Seriously, for a tiny guy he weighs a ton." Dean paused for a moment, tilted his head speculatively, and then leaned down toward Castiel's ear. "You hear that, buddy? Tiny. Next to Sam you look like a little girl."

"Don't provoke the angel," Sam said mildly as he pulled all three bags from the trunk."

"My body feels so heavy. . ." Castiel said, wonder in his tone. Dean just ducked his head, bringing his shoulders up under the angels arms, and staggering toward the motel room.

"Feels heavy to me, too," Dean grunted. Sam let them in, dropped the duffels on the ground, and watched as Dean unceremoniously pitched forward, landing both himself and the angel sprawled across one bed.

"Rock, paper, scissors?" Sam asked hopefully. Dean rolled over onto his back, raised one eyebrow.

"Well. . .if Cas is sick, it's not fair to put him on the cot again," Sam said. "So. . .rock, paper, scissors?"

"You can have the other bed," Dean said gruffly. "You always beat me, anyway."

Sam shrugged. "You always pick scissors. _Always_."

"Fine," Dean shrugged off his jacket, threw his boots against the fall wall. "I call first shower."

So Sam sat with the angel, watching him out of the corner of his eye. Castiel didn't seem sick, or injured. He just seemed. . .kind of out of it. As soon as Dean disappeared he scooted back, so that he was sitting against the headboard. His shoes were still on. Sam shook his head. They were really going to have to get the guy some new clothing. The trenchcoat pennyloafer look wasn't doing him any favors.

"Cas, what's wrong?" he asked finally. "We can't help you if you don't tell us."

Castiel continued to look straight ahead. "I am not certain," he said finally. "I think that perhaps Gabriel sent me back a bit. . .broken."

Sam frowned. "How?"

"Every portion of my anatomy aches. There is an intense agony between my eyes. It appears as though the light dances in and out of the world. It is becoming increasingly difficult to maintain vision, as my eyelids are closing against my will."

Sam almost choked on the laugh that he tried to contain. Castiel turned to look at him, a worried expression on his face. "Samuel? Are you well?"

"Yeah, it's just. . ." Sam didn't know quite how to tell the angel that the discomfort he was feeling was exhaustion. Then again, Dean had had to explain bowel movements, so he figured it was probably his turn on the whole "acclimate the fallen angel to life as a mortal" mission. Just then the water shut off, however, and Sam figured. . .well, Dean would probably deal with it better, anyway.

So he pulled off his socks, pants, and shirt, waited for his brother to come out of the shower. As Dean was toweling off his hair, Sam brushed by him.

"Cas isn't sick," Sam said. "He's just tired."

Dean glanced at him, apparently puzzled, but then just shrugged it off. Sam turned on the water which, miraculously for once, was still hot.

"Cas, when's the last time you slept?" he heard, muffled through the cheap wood of the door. Good. His brother had taken his advice.

"I do not require rest."

"Cas, man. . .I mean, maybe when you were an angel you didn't, but now. . ."

Sam stepped into the water, let it run over his body. The water didn't run dark as it hit the bottom of the tub. For once there weren't pounds of dirt and grime to wash off. These showers were his favorite. Normal ones, like normal people would take, to stay normal clean. He opened his mouth, let some of the hot waer dribble inside. He could still hear little drifts of the conversation outside.

"Every night? Seriously? You were Rear Windowing us?"

It was easier to hear Dean's loud, belligerant voice than the angels', lower pitched and calm.

"Well, you've got to sleep, Cas. I don't care about your damn mission or whatever. If you don't get some shut eye you're going to lose it, and what good will you be to Sammy or me then?"

The soap was slippery, kept sliding out of his hands. He finally captured it beneath one instep, leaned down triumphantly, enjoyed the suds as they spread across his body.

He couldn't hear any distinct words now, just soft mutterings. Maybe the sound of the television. Dean had probably bullied the angel into a bed, pulled the covers up tight, as he had for Sam when he'd been sick or hurt after a fight. Was probably lying on the other bed, channel surfing, even though he'd offered to take the cot.

Sam stepped out of the shower, wrapped himself in a towel and began to head out.

Which was when he heard it. Pitched too low to have been heard with the water on, the low, steady tones of singing. More specifically, or Dean singing. More specifically still, of Dean singing Billy Joel.

Sam decided to dress in the bathroom, glad that he'd dragged a pair of clean boxers and a t-shirt in earlier. Something about the song was familiar. . .and then he remembered.

Their father hadn't been as bad as Sam always liked to talk about. Weekdays he was always home, made sure they ate breakfast in the morning, and their tv dinners at night. He insisted that they go to school, do their homework. It was only on the weekends that he would disappear, every once in a while the weekend spreading into an extra day, sometimes two.

Usually it wasn't a problem, Sam barely noticed the difference. The diet didn't change. . .he and Dean were more than capable of using a microwave and pouring out milk. But when there was a storm at night. . .something scratching at the door. . .he always felt safe when Dad was around, because Dad was big and strong, but when he was gone, Sam was occasionally overcome by a terror that something, _something_ was going to sneak in and eat him all up.

So on those nights, when Sam shivered in bed, the covers pulled up to his chin, his eyes wide awake, Dean would sigh, flip off the tv, and crawl into bed with him.

"Come on, Sam," he'd say, gruffly for an eight year old, or ten year old, or even, Sam was ashamed to admit, a twelve year old. "Don't be a baby. It's just the wind."

"I want Daddy," Sam would say, and that always caused an inexplicable sadness in his brother. So Dean would put one hand awkwardly around him, and sing. Always the same song. Billy Joel's "Piano Man." Sam had fallen asleep to that more than once. It had always been comforting.

Yet now, twenty years later, hearing his brother sing the same song to a fallen angel, Sam didn't feel comforted at all. He felt, instead, intensely sad, for the second time in as many days. Because really, what kind of a six year old was left alone with a toddler in the middle of a storm?

Clothing pulled on, he walked out of the bathroom, because although he knew that Dean might be pissed, he also knew that he was not sleeping in the tub. When he walked out, he was not surprised to see Cas, bundled up under motel sheets, Dean stretched out above the comforter beside him. The angels' head had fallen onto Dean's shoulder. When the door creaked open, Dean stopped singing, jerked his head up, locked eyes with Sam.

"I swear, if you ever"

"Never," Sam said. Dean nodded, put his head back down, sighed. "I just need. . .I'm going to step outside, get some fresh air," Sam said.

"Going to put on any pants, or you just trying to make up for the lack of pay per view?"

"It'll just be a second, Dean," Sam rolled his eyes, stepped out.

August in the plains went beyond uncomfortable. It was sticky hot, and Sam immediately wished that he were back inside with the air conditioning. But inside he couldn't breathe, and out here. . .wrenching breaths pulled up from within him. Because it wasn't fair. It really, really wasn't fair.

What kind of lives had they led? Dean had never had a childhood. Sam had never had security. Their entire lives had been movement and distance and pain and blood. And now. . .this was how it ends? Sam should have been successful. . .he should have made a bazillion dollars, belonged to a country club, driven a BMW. And Dean should have had a family of his own, little kids to tuck into bed, not fully grown angels in trenchcoats and loafers.

He glanced up. No stars above, cloudy. Because stars would have given at least the illusion of comfort, and God only knew that the Winchesters didn't get any bone thrown their way. He curled up his fists.

Heaven hadn't been all that bad, really, or limbo, whatever it was. Maybe it would be better for everyone to just say yes. Maybe they could convince Lucifer and Michael to beam them up there. The Apocalypse couldn't be all that bad. So people would die. At least after death they'd get what they deserved, instead of ekeing out a pathetic existence on earth. Sam wondered, briefly, if anyone was ever happy on earth. Wondered why Michael and Lucifer had picked them, when they were so damaged, so broken, so irrevocably fucked up.

Wondered why. . .and with that, the glimmering of an idea appeared in Sam's head. He kept his lips tight, tried to force it back, so that not even a hint of it would appear on his face. Because Dean wouldn't like it, oh no, Dean wouldn't like it one bit.

Still. Sam thought it was a pretty darn good plan.


	20. Chapter 20

**AN: Welcome back, Jenine!!!**

"**Some say the world will end in fire,**

**Some say in ice" – Robert Frost **

The three men stared at what Castiel still called "a den of iniquity." It looked, to Sam's eyes, to be the flashiest thing on a strip filled with flashy things. Somehow this building had brighter neon signs, more warmth spilling out, and more attractice people heading in. Despite numerous police investigations, there had been no consensus on the abnormal number of deaths occurring within the walls, and despite frequent protestations by the Health Department, it hadn't been shut down. And somehow, incredibly, people were still flowing in through its tasteless red doors.

All signs which pointed to something supernatural going on within.

"So, we made it here," Sam said. Dean grunted. Castiel said nothing. "Do we have a plan for how to get the vetala out?"

Nobody said anything. Sam sighed. This was where their hunting party usually crashed and burn. Sam preferred to take a few hours to think through strategy, to come up with a good, solid, foolproof plan. In the past four years, he had never had the opportunity to do so. Not once. Because Dean's idea of a hunt was to drive to the site, sit for about two minutes, grab a gun, and go in guns blazing.

Sure enough, one hundred twenty seconds later, Dean threw open his door and stepped out. "Let's Butch Cassidy this bitch," he said. "Cas, stay in the car."

Sam was 90% certain that the angel had lost all of his angelic powers. After all, in the past two days they'd had to teach him how to use a fork, a shower, a toilet, how to tie a tie, lace up shoes, and even use a _bed_. He'd watched the angel eat and sleep, seen him walk from place to place, seen the puzzled look on his face whenever he'd tried to do something he previously would have used his wings for.

That being said, there was still that 10% of the time when Castiel was still unworldly. He and Dean still had those five minutes staredowns. At times, Cas still seemed able to read his brother's mind. And although Sam was 90% certain that the angel _must_ have just opened a door and walked, he was 10% suspicious that he had just blipped himself back to stand between Dean and the trunk. Dean, apparently, shared that thought, as he jerked back with a bitten-off curse.

"Don't _do_ that," He heaved, turning around and putting his hands on upper thighs, apparently trying to regain lost breath. "_Jesus_!"

"You will not need weapons," Castiel said. "They will do nothing against her."

Which, Sam thought, was _exactly_ why they needed a real plan. Especially since, as far as they knew, the only way to vanquish a vetala was still to give it a proper funeral. While still alive. He shuddered. What a horrible way to go.

"Okay, fine," Dean shrugged. "We'll just waltz in, she'll see Cas, zap back into her normal form, and we'll walk her out."

"Um. . .Dean. . ." Sam's brother seemed to be missing out on one very pertinent detail. He waited until Dean had turned. "Remember. Cas died."

"Huh," Dean pursed his lips, considered for a moment. He looked at the angel. "Yeah. You're going to have to tell us about that someday."

And then, unbelievably, Dean Winchester turned and walked straight through the front doors. Sam stared, half-panicked, at the angel. Castiel, however, just shook his head once, decisively, and still without an expression on his face, walked into the building. Sam scurried after.

It was bad. It was exactly as bad as Sam could ever have believed. He'd been in strip clubs before – every one of Dean's birthdays, actually – but never in one of this magnitude. Every wall was grossly, horrifically red, and there were naked people _everywhere_. Not just women, either. Men walked by in studded black thongs, greased chests. Sam thought that out of the corner of his eye he saw Castiel's jaw tighten. Maybe it was just his imagination, though, as two Asian lookalikes brushed by him on either side. One was wearing a catsuit. One appeared to be wearing nothing more than long hair. Sam gagged a little.

Dean, on the other hand, looked like a kid in a candy shop. His eyes were practically popping out of his head, a wide grin plastered across his face. Every few minutes he would turn around and shoot Sam and Castiel a thumbs' up.

It only took a few minute to find Jenine. She was in the center of the room, in a flurry of activity. As Dean, Sam, and Castiel drew up, however, the flurry calmed down. Slowly, the men and women who had crowded around her disappeared, and they found themselves face to face with the vetala once more.

"Hey, Sam!" she said brightly, moving forward to give him a tight hug. He pulled back, careful, glad that he was covered multiple layers. Her skin didn't so much as graze his. She drew back, a smile still on her beautiful face. Even in the midst of the red lighting, she didn't look ghoulish like the other strippers. Her face still shone, a pretty white luminescence. She wasn't dressed like a stripper, either. She had some kind of a shiny skirt, and a long flowing white shirt. Her hair was pulled back in two long braids, which she flipped back over her shoulders. She bushed her glasses a little further up her nose. "It's been a while," she said, smiling even brighter and tilting her head to one side. "Parting is such sweet sorrow. I guess this is the sweet part."

Sam giggled. He didn't mean to. It just snuck out. It was good to see her again, he realized, as much as it shouldn't have been. Because, really, the last thing they needed in the middle of the Apocalypse was another pretty-demon girl. Wow. He really knew how to pick them.

"What is going on?" Dean asked furiously. "Why isn't she turning back into regular her?"

Castiel shrugged. "When I fell, it must have diminished my power over her. I am no longer the strongest soul."

"Well. . .crap," Dean said. He shook his head, grabbed Sam by the arm. "All right, loverboy, let's get your newest demon playtoy out of here."

Jenine seemed perfectly content to follow them outside.

"I don't really like it here, anyway," she said as they walked out. "I mean, it's gross, really, when you think about it. Desperate men and women paying for love. If it were just about the sex, it would be all right. A business transaction. But that's not what these poor people are looking for."

Sam was inclined to agree with her. Dean, however, had grabbed hard onto his arm and was towing him through the crowd quickly enough that he didn't have the chance to turn back and talk to her.

When they reached the Impala, however, Jenine held back, shook her head. "Okay, look," she said. "Sam, you're a nice guy, and I like you, I do. But I'm not stupid. There is no way I am getting in that junkbucket with three strange men."

Dean rolled his eyes, pulled a gun out of the back of his jeans, and pointed it almost negligently at her. "Hop in," he said. Sam moved to join her in the backseat, which earned him a gun straight at his face. "Shotgun, Sammy."

It wasn't so much that Sam pouted, as that he stuck out his bottom lip and scrunched up his nose. His brother could be so _bossy_, sometimes. Nonetheless, he knew that Castiel would be completely proper with the girl, so he climbed into the front seat. When he glanced in the rearview mirror to make sure that Jenine was all right, she had disappeared. In her place was a vague lookalike, dressed in a simple button-down and torn jeans.

"What the fuck!" Dean squawked, apparently noticing the shift at the same time as Sam.

"Sam and I must be an equal draw to her," Castiel said, even-toned. "I am in closer proximity to her now, and so she seeks to divert me."

"You going to be okay, Cas?" Dean asked. Both of his hands were on the wheel, but he hadn't turned on the ignition. "I mean, she got to you once. . ."

"I feel no attraction toward her at the moment," Castiel said. "I will be fine. Drive us to the hotel."

Sam refused to look back at all. He was moderately embarrassed. Even knowing what she was, the pull of the vetala was still hopelessly strong. Despite Castiel's assurances, he kept straining his ears for some sound from the backseat. Apparently the angel had spoken the truth, as there was no sound from the backseat, until "Enter Sandman" played on the radio. Then he had to endure Jenine and Dean belting out the lyrics. He was pretty sure that if he turned around, he would see her playing air guitar.

By the time they reached the motel, Sam had contented himself by clapping both hands over his ears. Apparently hyped up by the girls' appreciation of his noise, Dean had turned up the volume beyond anything before, and had practically screamed the entire way to the motel. Sam could still feel vibrations from the bass, minutes after the car had been turned off. He felt gingerly around his sore ears. He didn't feel the sticky wetness of blood, but that certainly didn't mean that his ears weren't leaking.

Dean, at least, was in an exuberant mood, as he nearly skipped around to open the door for their new guest. Jenine, too, was grinning widely as she stepped out of the Impala. The minute she touched Dean's hand, however, she shimmered into what looked to Sam's eyes like a tranny hooker. Until, of course, Castiel had stepped out of the car, when she reverted back to her most familiar form.

"Whew," Jenine said, putting a hand to her head and swaying dizzily for a moment. "You boys are going to make me lose my lunch."

"Sorry," Sam and Castiel said at the same time. Dean just grinned, and unlocked the motel room. As incredible as it seemed to Sam, his brother seemed to be actually enjoying himself.

"Here, have a beer," Dean said, reaching into the mini-fridge and pulling out four different bottles. He tossed one to Sam, and handed two to Jenine and Castiel. "Cheers," He said, flipping the top off his and quickly chugging about half of it. Sam frowned.

"Um. . .Dean. . ." he said. "You know that we have to. . .uh, take care of her, right?"

"Salt and burn," Jenine said. She glanced around the room, and then carefully sat down on the bed next to Castiel. She grinned up at Sam. "Better safe than sorry, she said." She put one hand over a corner of the angel's trenchcoat.

Sam looked at them speculatively. Castiel really didn't seem in the least bit affected by her presence. His gaze was still trained on Dean, who was once again pacing the room. It was hard to believe that this singularly focused angel had ever been seduced by anything.

"Right," Dean said. "Sorry about that. But first, we have some questions for you."

"Okay," Jenine said. "Better fire away, though. Outside the glory of that gentleman's club, Death can track me. We've got. . .oh. . .I'd say about two hours before he tracks us down."

"Okay," Dean said. He sat down on the opposite bed, leaned forward, braced his elbows on his legs, and stared intensely at the vetala. "Let's get crackin' then."


	21. Chapter 21

**AN: Darn it. . .more action. I hate action. Sigh.**

"**From what I've tasted of desire**

**I hold with those who favor fire" – Robert Frost **

"How do we stop the Apocalypse?"

Jenine blinked twice. "Wow. . .blunt much? Look, you can't stop the Apocalypse. It's been foretold by God. It _is_ going to happen."

"When?" Sam asked, before his brother could ask another question. Jenine turned to him, a bright smile on her face.

"There," she said. "Is an intelligent question.

"The time isn't exactly known. God never had a very good grasp of time. . .immortality can do that to a person. The _date_ of the Apocalypse doesn't matter."

"So it doesn't have to be now?" Dean asked. Jenine shook her head.

"No," she said. "It doesn't. Even John didn't predict it to come this soon, and he was all doped up on opiates at the time."

Huh. Sam considered. Revelations made a lot more sense through the psychedelic eyes of a druggie.

"The angels have set things in motion," Castiel said heavily.

"The angels are douchebags," Jenine said. "No offense." Castiel shrugged.

"Nonetheless," he said. "There are appropriate vessels on earth now. They want the Apocalypse. They will not be stopped."

"Why are we appropriate vessels?" Sam asked. This was beginning to feel a bit like twenty questions. Jenine frowned.

"Didn't Michael tell you?"

"He said it's a bloodline," Dean said. "That stretches back to Cain and Abel."

"Huh," Jenine said, a ghost of a smile on her face. "And yet again Michael proves that Lucifer is the smarter brother." When everyone stared at her, she just laughed again.

"Oh, come on, don't tell me you haven't figured that out yet. Lucifer's been talking to Sam pretty much non-stop, and Michael can't even _find_ you. Besides. Cain and Abel's bloodlines were wiped out by the Great Flood. No. . ." She frowned for a minute, closed her eyes. "Your bloodline goes back to Jesse."

"But didn't Jesse have a dozen sons?" Sam asked.

"Seven," Jenine said. "But don't forget the daughters."

"So there must be other appropriate vessels," Sam said. "Why are they so focused on us? Why not just find a cousin, or a second cousin, or whatever? Why us?"

"Bloodline is not the only determinant to become a vessel," Jenine said. Here she glanced at Castiel. "Should I tell them the rest?" she asked. Castiel tensed up.

"I will inform them," he said. "When the timing is more appropriate."

"Cas, what. . ." Dean turned to look at the angel, a look of betrayal on his face. "You know something about this?"

"It is not important," Castiel said.

"If it has to do with us being angel condoms, yeah, I think it's pretty damn important!" Dean rose off the bed, stalked across the room, turned around to glare accusatorily at the angel. "What, all of a sudden the Apocalypse isn't important anymore?"

"You will not become a vessel, Dean," Castiel said calmly. "So the particulars of the deal are not pertinent. At the moment."

Dean glanced out the window. What had been a bright, cloudless sky was suddenly becoming darker. He glanced at Jenine, remembering what she had said earlier. The last time they'd seen Death, he'd been accompanied by lightning and storm clouds.

"Here's what you need to know," Jenine said intently. "The angels are bringing on the Apocalypse, because they believe that all the signs point to it. They _must_ obey God's will, and since he's missing, all they know is what His prophets have written down. They see the signs of John's psyched out revelations, and so they think it's time. That is what's important. That is all you need to know."

"That they're following some high-flying dead prophet?" Dean spat out. "I could care less _why_ the angels are pulling dick moves. I care about stopping them!"

"Dean. . ." Sam was still staring at the darkness outside. He'd gotten the answer he'd needed out of Jenine. He'd have to talk to Cas about it, but all signs pointed to go. If they got out of Vegas alive. Which was looking somewhat doubtful, if the clouds gave any indication.

"What, Sam?"

Sam swallowed, trying to work some moisture into his suddenly dry mouth. He pointed at the window. Dean swiveled around to look, swore, grabbed his gun. Sam felt a moment of panic. They'd left the Knife and the Colt in the Impala. If there were demons, they had no way to fight them. Then again, if it was just Death, they were doomed anyway.

"Okay," Jenine said. She took a deep breath, as though steeling herself. "I guess I underestimated Death. He's almost here. Quick, cut my throat, salt and burn the remains, and then get on a Dodge."

Dean's hand was trembling, but he picked up the knife and moved toward her.

"Don't," Castiel said, abruptly standing up. His eyes were blazing, electric fire again. Great, Sam thought. Now was the moment when the angel finally started to cave to the vetala's charms.

"Look, Cas, I know she's working her demon mojo on you, but we can't just leave her this time," Dean tried to step around the angel, but Castiel just sidestepped with him. They were almost nose to nose. Sam glanced out the window again. Really not the time for one of the creepy staredowns.

"You can't kill her," Castiel said. "Can't you see that it's what she _wants_?"

Dean raised one eyebrow, met the angel stare for stare. "Because we're dealing with a real person. She probably doesn't want her body to be hijacked anymore. She wants it to _end_."

"There is no she," Castiel said. "This is not just a vetala."

There was lightning now. Sam licked his lips. "Dean. . .Cas. . ."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Look at her, Dean. She is Babylon."

Thunder crashed, and the door flew open. Sam took a step back, reaching blindly behind him for a moment before remembering that Cas couldn't just blink them out of danger anymore. They were on their own.

"Great! All the more reason to kill her!"

"Her death is the start of the end, Dean!" Castiel was fairly spitting now. "She is the last seal!"

"Swell," Dean whirled around. "Why is the last seal always some bitch's death?"

The doorway was still open. Sam couldn't see anything outside of it, just swirling darkness. He felt sick. How were they going to get out of this one?

A figure walked in the door. A young child, with long blonde hair and bright blue eyes. Sam blinked. Darkness swirled around the child.

"Hello, Babylon," the child said. He turned to look at Sam, and smiled a sad little smile. Sam shuddered. The child had no pupils, no whites to his eyes. Everything was just a flat, sappphiric blue.

"I am sorry," the child said, and stepped forward again. As soon as its back foot had left the doorway, it was flanked by three tall men, all dressed in long, flowing black robes, with matching beetleblack eyes. Demons.

Sam took a step back, another, until he found that his back met the wall behind him. He whimpered. There was nowhere left to go. The child turn, cocked its head, and walked over to Dean.

"Hello, brother," it said, reaching out one tiny, tiny hand. As if in a dream, Dean lifted his own.

"Dean, no!" Sam screamed. He lurched forward, just one step. Because that was Death, dammit, and he knew, just _knew_ that one touch would mean death. Real death. As in the end. No angels pulling him up from Hell, or kicking him out of Heaven. Real Death.

But Dean, unbelievably, grabbed the child's hand. "I only have one brother," he growled, and then with a mighty heave threw the child into the wall. He. . .bounced, somehow, landed on his feet, and turned to face Dean, an angry look on his angelic little face.

"Sam, he can't hurt me!" Dean shouted. "Grab Cas and go! I'll catch up with you!"

Sam wanted to say no. He wanted to stay and protect his brother. Even now, the demons were stepping toward him. Sam choked. The Horseman might not be able to hurt his brother, but those were three demons. Three demons and nothing to protect him.

But Jenine rose, smoothly, from the bed, touched the first demon on the arm. The black slid out of his eyes, and he gaped at her.

"Becky?" he asked.

"Not quite," Jenine said, kneed him in the cut. Dean, meanwhile, had dove at Death's legs, tangling the child up before he could take another step toward Sam.

"Sam!" Dean shouted, as Death squirmed and punched him full in the face. "Go! Sam, go!"

So he did. He'd been well-trained, he thought bitterly, even as he grabbed Castiel's trenchcoat. He was useless. He'd run to the Impala, grab the Knife, the Colt. . .he'd come back. . .he'd help, but right there he was useless.

Jenine threw the demon through the mirror, which he hit and slumped to the ground. Death kicked Dean off of him, crawled through broken mirror. The blue eyes ate up his face. He glared at Sam, lunged forward.

It was Jenine who saved them this time, slamming into the demon's side with the force of a semi. Both of them crashed through the thin walls. Chunks of the ceiling fell in on them. Sam ducked, coughed through sudden dust. One of the demons had stalked Dean into a corner. Sam tightened his grip on the angel's trenchcoat, tugged him forward. They had to get to the Colt.

"Dean, no!" Cas was struggling, though, twisting around, the trenchcoat bunching and slipping in Sam's hand. Dean hit the demon in the head with the side of a lamp. There was still no movement from the rubble where Jenine and Death had disappeared.

"Cas, we have to get the Colt!" Sam gasped. He could barely breathe in the dust. Where was that third demon? The thirst, the little niggle in the back of his throat came up again. He nearly gagged on it. Maybe. . .he'd used his powers to destroy Famine. Maybe. . .

"Dean!" Cas struggled again. Sam tugged. No. He had to fight the thirst. The Colt. That was what he needed. The Colt. He wrestled the angel out the door, almost threw him against the Impala. The wall exploded behind him, hard jagged bits of plaster and wood knocking into him from behind. Castiel made another strangled sound, became silent. They reached the car. Sam reached in his pocket, felt a moment of disbelief. The keys. Dean had the keys.

He turned around. Smoke was flowing out the door to their room. The ceiling next door had completely collapsed. A crash from within.

"Dammit," Sam hissed. He glanced at the angel. He seemed calm, suddenly, his eyes closed, his lips moving silently. A prayer, maybe, Sam thought. Nothing to do for it, anyway. He darted to the driver's side, busted in the window, wincing as he did so. Dean was going to kill him for that. Opened the door, slipped in. His fingers were trembling, badly, as he started to hotwire the car. Another sound of explosion within the motel.

"Come on, come on, come on," Sam hissed. Red, yellow, and yes! The engine hummed on. Sam rolled down the window.

"Dean!" he screamed. "Come on! Let's go!"

There was no answer from within. Smoke continued to flow out. Come on, Sam thought. Dean could handle that. They'd been in worse. Two demons. . .he could get around that. He _had_ to. Sam climbed out of the car. Reached in the back trunk. Grabbed the knife and Colt. Lifted the one.

But before he could take a single step, the room exploded into black light.


	22. Chapter 22

**AN: The angst! THE ANGST!!!!!**

**Poor Cas. . .this chap is very "City of Angels." He just can't catch a break. Sammy has a nasty mouth. Chuck appears! The Impala is sad. . .**

"**Though if we had to perish twice**

**I think I know enough of hate" – Robert Frost**

It was over. Sam didn't see why they had to bother going through the motions. Dean was dead. Michael was without a vessel. It was pointless to keep going. He might as well just say yes, get everything over with. When he'd tried pointing that out to Castiel, however, the angel had just looked at him with dead blues eyes.

"No," he said. "We will not give in."

"But Dean. . ."

"Dean would _never_ want you to give in," Castiel said. His face remained flat and expressionless, focused on the miles of empty highway in front of them. His voice, however, was as fierce as Sam had ever heard it. "Besides, he is still alive."

Sam shook his head. His fingers curled tighter around the wheel, as if in proof that his brother was dead. He was driving the Impala. Alone. It brought back unwanted memories, the months of summer while Dean was in hell. This was too similar to that, and the angel riding shotgun didn't help. So he'd substituted a demon for an angel. It still wasn't Dean.

Still. . .this new revelation. Sam glanced at the angel. "Can you. . .sense him? Do you still have some angel powers you didn't tell us about?"

"No," Castiel said. He still hadn't moved a muscle, not one, since they'd driven away from the motel.

"Then how do you know. . ."

"I do not wish to discuss this, with you, Samuel."

Sam nodded. Bit his lip. Fine. Stupid, tight-assed angel didn't want to discuss. . .screw it. With a hard turn, Sam brought the Impala to a shuddering stop at the side of the road. Slowly, agonizingly slowly, Castiel turned to stare at Sam. His eyes were flat and dead, and when their focus fell upon him, Sam gave an involuntary shudder, looked away.

"We are still many hours away from the Prophet's house." Castiel said. "May I ask why we are stopping?"

"Because," Sam said, and his jaw was trembling. Get a grip, Sam. Get a grip. He clenched the car's wheel again, drawing strength from the familiar feeling. Turned to look at Castiel. "Because I just watched my brother get blown to smithereens, and with him all hope of saving the world. Because I don't know what we're doing, and why. Because this isn't some goddamned movie where we're inspired by a heroic death, this is life, and Dean just died, and I'm sorry that doesn't bother your fuckin' immortal soul, but it hurts, man, it fucking feels like somebody ripped my heart out and stomped it all over the ground. So I'm sorry that you still feel like you're on a mission, and I'm sorry that you have God to find, and I'm sorry that you somehow think Chuck's gonna help you find him, but I need a minute here, I just. . .I need a minute, okay!"

Jaw clenched, look away, fight back the tears. But there was no point, because Sam could still see him, Dean backed up against a wall, no weapon but a crappy ceramic lamp against two demons. And he'd goneout to the car. Why the hell hadn't they brought the weapons in with them?

"Samuel. . ."

"Shut up," Sam said harshly. He ran his arm across his eyes, brushing away the tears. Dirt from his jacket fell on his face. It hurt more. It didn't help with the tears, anyway.

"Samuel, I know that you feel like grieving, but your brother is still alive."

"How do you know?" Sam was almost screaming now, and he knew how ridiculous it was, to scream at a former angel who still, improbably, was wearing a trenchcoat, though at some point he'd lost the tie. "How the fuck do you know that, Cas?"

"Because he has to be," Castiel said. "Because the world needs him to be alive."

"Bullshit," Sam sighed. He lowered his face into the steering wheel. Hot tears, hot as blood, pattered against the worn rubber. Already he could feel the energy bleeding out of him, dissipating. He took one long, shuddering breath.

"Because he is one of the Horsemen of the Apocalypse, and Death holds no power over him."

"Doesn't stop the demons," Sam said bitterly.

"Because Babylon would have saved him."

"She seemed pretty tied up, to me."

"He's alive, Sam."

This time, maybe because of the use of a nickname, maybe because the quiet conviction hadn't left the angels voice, Sam listened. He sniffed, wiped at his nose, at his eyes, at the unoffending steering wheel. Sat up. Turned on the ignition. Almost noiselessly they pulled back onto the road.

"You don't know that he's alive," Sam said dully. He would keep going, because it was what the Winchesters did. He would still try out the plan. Because why not. He had nothing to lose. He did not, however, believe that there was any purpose to it. "You just hope that he is."

"He's alive."

"Stop saying that," Sam reached over, his hand hovering over the radio. But somehow, so soon after Dean's impromptu karaoke session, he just couldn't stand it. He pulled his hand back. Two more hours. Two more hours in the car and they'd be at Chuck's. Two more hours. He could handle that.

"He's alive," Castiel muttered again. Sam was about to retort, about to freaking lose it again, when he paused. Glanced over at the angel, saw the way his lips were soundlessly forming the same words over and over again. Realized that the angel didn't know anything more than he did. He just had faith.

Which begged another question.

"Why do you think he's alive, Cas?"

The angel didn't respond at first. He just continued to stare forward, face as impassive as a stone, only his lips moving, forming those same two words over and over again. Sam wondered if he should ask the question again, was about to when the angel finally answered.

"Because I have to," the angel said. "Because I can't go on if he's. . .I gave up everything for him, Sam. I have to believe that he is alive, because if he's not. . ."

No emotion, throughout the entire speech. Sam's draw dropped. Back to the road, he reminded himself. Suddenly he understood why Dean had always shied away from emotional moments, why he'd deemed them "Chick Flick" and would turn on the mullet rock. It felt as though walls had been constructed between himself and the angels. Words went unsaid. Probably better not to say them. . .better to exist in the worlds that they'd inhabited ahead of time.

Still. Sam was not, would never be, Dean, and he longed to break down those walls, even if it forced him into some undiscovered country, some hostile place that he'd rather not be.

"With the vetala. . .she was Dean, wasn't she."

"Of course not," Castiel said. "She possessed female anatomy."

"Yeah, I know, but. . .she gives you what you most desire. She offered you a Dean who understood, who accepted, who. . ."

"These are things better left unsaid, Sam."

Sam nodded. Yeah, probably. The conversation with the former angel had buoyed his spirits, somehow, though. Because, yeah, despite Cas' irrational faith, chances were that his brother had died, been blown to bits by that black explosion. But this time Sam wouldn't have to deal with the grief alone. This time he had backup.

It didn't help with the problem of the encroaching Apocalypse, but it did make him feel better.

"Do you love him?"

Castiel twitched, the greatest physical reaction Sam had gotten from him in the entire trip. "I love all of my Father's creation," he said tightly.

Enough. Sam couldn't keep the smile from creeping across his face, but it was enough. The poor guy had dealt with enough in the past few days, from dying to becoming mortal to fighting off Babylon and Death. . .he could be teased mercilessly in the future.

"Turn left," Castiel said.

They pulled in to Chuck's horrific bachelor pad at around midnight. There were no lights on, no signs that anyone was there. Fair enough, Sam thought. It was a bit late. Though he thought that he remembered Chuck's sleeping patterns as having been. . .a bit different from normal people. And, sure enough, mere seconds after he'd pressed the doorbell, a light turned on in the living room. Twenty seconds later Chuck answer the door, wearing, unsurprisingly, only boxers and a ratty old bathrobe.

"Oh, my God, Sam!" he said, sounding surprised. "You're alive! That's great! HOLY SHIT!" The writer grabbed the doorframe to keep from falling over. One, trembling finger pointed at Castiel. "You can't be alive!" he almost screamed. "You're not . . ."

And then, quite unceremoniously, the most current Prophet of the Lord fell to the ground in a faint.


	23. Chapter 23

**AN: Meh. Not my fav.**

**BEGIN THE APOCALYPSE!!!!!!**

"**To say that for destruction, ice**

**is also great and would suffice" – Robert Frost**

An hour and two beers later, Chuck didn't seem any more settled. He just kept staring at Castiel, suspicious and disbelievingly. When Sam asked why, he just shoved over a pile of papers. Wincing at the typos and horrific grammar, Sam read through them.

Everything seemed about right, seemed to mirror what they'd gone through. Except. . .after he and Dean had died, according to Chuck, Cas took the vetala back to the motel room. Waited. And two days later (the time they'd agreed upon) he'd gone up to heaven to retrieve them. Where they'd all been caught by Raphael, and Castiel had been completely, totally, and irrevocably smote.

"But. . .this didn't happen," Sam said.

"Obviously," Chuck said, still staring at the former angel.

"How. . .how is that possible?" Sam asked. "You're a prophet, right?"

"That's what I've been told." Castiel shifted a little under the man's gaze.

"But. . ." Sam shook his head, kept reading. Maybe. . .he got to Las Vegas, to the vetala, to the demons and Death and. . .

"That's it?" he asked. "Nothing more?"

"Sure," Chuck said. "It's on the computer." He was still staring at the angel. Much less talkative than usual. Sam didn't mind the new version of Chuck, not one bit. He stood up, prepared to go to the computer.

"Stop," Castiel said. Sam turned around. The angel's eyes were wide, the blue almost taking over the rest of his face. For the first time, Sam noticed how dark the angel's jawline was. He'd have to teach the poor guy how to shave. "Do you really. . .want to know?"

Sam paused a moment. Castiel looked beseeching, begging, but. . .yes. In answer to his question, Sam did want to know. He needed to know. So he turned around to

"BOO!"

Sam did not let out a high-pitched scream. He absolutely did not. No way. No how. He was manly. A manly man. And no matter how many times Chuck insisted (between giggles and snorts, and a strange little pee-dance) he refused to believe it. He absolutely did not scream.

"Dude!" The figure that had so inappropriately jumped out of nowhere was laughing uproariously, pointing a finger that just begged to be broken at Sam. "You screamed like a little girl!"

Sam should have been pissed, but the sight of his brother, standing, alive and breathing, was too much. So instead he just let out a strangled "Dean!" jumped forward, and grabbed his brother into a tight hug.

Which resulted in instant wincing and struggling. "Ow," Dean twitched in his arms, and Sam jerked back, remembering the fight he'd just been in, stepped back.

Dean was definitely not his best. There was a jagged gash stretching from his right temple down to his left earlobe, narrowly missing his eye. One of his arms was in a sling, the cloth of his jacket lying in tattered pieces. Everything was stained with blood. But he was standing, and grinning, and his green eyes were dancing around, so it couldn't be that bad.

Sam punched him in the uninjured arm. "Boo? Seriously? Jerk!"

"Bitch," Dean said amiably. He leaned around Sam, gave Cas an airy wave. "Hey, angelface, how you doing?"

Castiel stood up. Sam stepped back. The smile on his face, that had flared up the minute he'd seen his brother hale and hearty, doubled. It was a smirk, really. It was like a scene out of a romantic comedy – not that he ever watched them. Especially not the ones with Reese Witherspoon. Cas would run up to his brother, would fling his arms around him, and they would exchange a chaste kiss. . .until his brother turned apoplectic and nearly choked on his own tongue. Except that the former angel, as restrained as ever, merely moved to stand in front of Dean (cue the staring match!) and said

"I am glad that you are well, Dean."

"You, too, Cas," Dean said. He reached over and clasped the angel tight around the upper arm. They stood in that tableau for a minute before Dean said "Aw, shit, it's not like a man escapes Death every day." He pulled the angel in for a tight hug, let him go, and turned his megawatt grin toward Chuck.

"Way to go," he said. "The fainting was a nice touch."

Chuck, meanwhile, probably couldn't hear anything through his incessant giggles.

"Little girl. . ." he finally gasped. "Big hero."

"Wait a second. . ." Sam said, something occurring to him. "Where's the vetala?"

Dean's smile grew, if anything, even wider. "You have _got_ to see this," he said. He marched proudly into what passed as Chuck's living room, and gestured grandly toward two women sitting on the couch. One was familiar – the fangirl. Sam shuddered. He couldn't even remember her name. Only remembered her hand. On his chest. Unmoving. Now she was snoring.

Next to her sat. . .he blinked once, twice. It must have been Jenine. Must have been, only. . .only she had become a he, at least at first glance, with long, flowing locks and a billowing pirate shirt. At second glance, she still had her female anatomy. Huh, Sam thought. Interesting..

"Save me. . ." Jenine moaned.

"Interesting," Castiel observed. "It would appear that this young woman possesses the greatest strength of any of us."

Jenine closed eyes, and slid down the couch. "Just kill me now," she moaned.

"No can do, sweetcheeks," Dean said chipperly. "We wouldn't want to start the Apocalypse, after all, now would we?"

Speaking of Apocalypses. . .Sam's eyes narrowed. He'd been so pleased to see his brother, he hadn't even once considered that it could all be a trick. At just that moment, Chuck peeped up behind them.

"Don't worry," he said, still wheezing a bit. "I spiked his water with some holy stuff when he came in. Same as I did for you." He stood taller, preened a bit. "See," he said. "I'm learning."

"Yeah, yeah," Dean harrumped, and threw himself into the couch. Becky's head, dislodged by the movement, gave a might snort and then rolled forward to rest on his uninjured shoulder. Dean ignored her. "All right, Chuck, let's get 'er started, end this thing."

"End what. . .huh. . .Dean, what's going on?" Cue massive bitchface. Dean just stretched out and yawned.

"Look, Sam, the angels are following what they think are orders, right – whatever the last prophet wrote. So we just have Chuck write whatever we want, and – poof! – we've got ourselves an army of angel bitches."

It was, admittedly, one of his brothers' more thought-out plans. Which didn't make it any more likely to work. Sam sighed. Nonetheless. . .he was just so tired. When was the last time that they'd slept. Before the all-night drive. Before pulling in to Vegas. . .that motel room, when Cas had been unable to sleep. It wasn't such a long time ago. They were used to going longer. But somehow. Somehow.

He sat down on a pile of old, dusty newspapers, that as far as he could see, worked as a chair for the writer. Closed his eyes. "Okay," he said.

Chuck grinned widely, cracked his knuckles. He glanced once, nervously, at the couch, at the Fabio-sized version of Jenine, who still had her/his eyes closed. Shrugged. Sat down in front of the computer. Cracked his knuckles again.

_Sam walked away from the Prophet, his heart heavy. True, the great and wise Prophet had confirmed his greatest fear: that there was no free will. If his life had differed from the handsome and enigmatic prophet's vision, then free will was. . .there. But that did not change that his brother had perished. For the world. For him. One single, manly tear fell down his face._

_ "Don't cry, brother."_

"What the. . ." Dean shook his head. "That's totally not how it happened."

"The female readers dig this," Chuck said shortly. "They call it angst. Read the forums!"

Dean shuddered.

_Dean pulled his younger brother into a manly embrace. It was so good, Sam thought, to feel his brother alive, his heart beating. Sam's beat in time to it._

_Eventually, after hours, Dean pulled back, and gave his brother a long, soulful look._

_ "Come on, Sam," he said. "We have to stop the Apocalypse."_

_ "How?" Sam asked. "We are just two men. Two powerful, smart and sexy men, but two men nonetheless. Even with my brains and your strength, how can we take on the hordes of heaven?"_

Chuck looked up expectantly. "Well?" He asked. "How do you want to take on the hordes of heaven?" Dean shrugged.

"Just have the angels come down, we find out they have a secret weakness, like, I don't know, peanut butter and jelly, and we take them out."

Chuck ran his hands through hair, wide-eyed. "That has no literary symmetry," he complained.

"No," Dean agreed. "But it keeps us alive, and I can drink to that."

With a loud groan, he stood up. "Look, you're the writer, figure it out. Me? I'm bushed. I'm heading to bed."

**AN: I know. According to this, Dean was just chillin', doin' nothing in the house for an hour. Well, he has his own personal sex toy Jenine. I'm sure he had SOMETHING with which to amuse himself.**


	24. Chapter 24

**AN: And so we learn why the brothers Winchester are such sought-after vessels.**

**BTW: Thanks OTP, for the frequent reviews. I can see that people are reading the story, from the site traffic, but it's so nice to read the encouragement, too.**

Sam hadn't been a fan of the "Supernatural" books from the first time he'd read, them, and not just because they'd been a voyeuristic look into his life. Privacy? Not for him, not anymore. But it went beyond that sense of violation – no, Sam didn't like the "Supernatural" books because they were horribly written.

He put down Chuck's most recent developments. If anything, they were the worst thing that he'd ever written, which was quite an accomplishment, considering the drivel of "Bugs" and that horrible story in the middle that had shown Dean in the backseat of the Impala with an angel. Sam still had nightmares. This, however, went beyond bad.

It didn't even make sense.

In Chuck's concluding chapter, the Prophet called down the angels by putting a gun to his own head. Michael, of course, was the archangel currently assigned to him. So Chuck the Holy Prophet kept that gun trained on his head and ordered Michael to call his little brother. Moments later it was a standoff between the Holy and Handsome Prophet Chuck, Lucifer, and Michael. At which point Chuck, having somehow deduced the one Weapon to Kill Angels, grabbed a bag of sugar (not salt, mind you) and threw it in their faces. Poof. Michael and Lucifer were dead.

"It's better than peanut butter," Chuck defended himself.

Not by much.

Though Sam knew that it didn't much matter what the man wrote. Prophecy, Sam knew, was not a matter of simply writing something down: it was the hearing the Voice, that mattered, and obviously Chuck hadn't been hearing much of anything except a few beers and a hankering for chocolate when he'd written the end. No angel was going to be confused by that kind of schmuck.

Sam glanced at the armchair near the window. Castiel was sprawled out in it, one leg loosely hooked over the arm. The trenchcoat had been taken off, and the shoes as well. His mouth hung open, slack, and a little river of drool fell from dry lips. Sam smiled a little. He walked over, righted his friend, gently, and placed an afghan over the man's prone form. Granted, the afghan smelled like spilt coffee and bourbon, but still. It felt like the right thing to do.

Okay, then. Dean, out of commission, check. Castiel, unable to interfere, Check. Gun in the back of pants, check. Sam turned around, whipped the gun out, and pointed it straight at Chuck's head.

"I'm really sorry about this, Chuck," he said, and gestured toward the door. For about the first time since they'd met, Chuck seemed unperturbed. He actually smiled a little.

"So, you liked my idea after all, huh?" He asked, placidly walking toward the door. "Well, if you bought it, and you're the smart one, I suppose. . ."

His words were interrupted as a bright streak of lightning rent the sky. Sam raised a hand, trying to shield his eyes from the brillance. When the dancing dots had vanished, the shadows of his eyelids returning to something resembling normalcy, Sam dropped his arm.

Standing in front of him was Father Reilly. Or. . .not Father Reilly, but something in the guise of Father Reilly, with light seeping out of ears, mouth, nose. His eyes blazed white.

"Samuel Winchester," the creature said. "It is a pleasure to finally meet you."

Sam lowered the gun. He wouldn't need it anymore. Chuck, meanwhile, was just eagerly glancing back and forth between the two.

"Michael?"

Father Reilly inclined his head. "In the flesh. Or at least, in Patrick Reilly's flesh."

Sam nodded. In Chuck's writings, Michael had appeared because it fit the story. Sam had just been hoping that he would come, that he would have recognized the connection between the Winchesters and their Prophet.

"I have a question for you," Sam said. Michael just stood there waiting. Okay, then. He was the taciturn type. "Could I be a vessel for you? The same as Dean?"

"Yes," Michael's response was short, clipped. "As I told your brother, the ability to house an angel runs in the blood. You share blood with your brother. You would be a suitable vessel."

"Okay," Sam took a deep breath. He could do this. He had to do this. It would save the world, after all, it would save his brother. He'd had twenty years of a moderately normal life, supernatural creatures alive. Only six years of hunting. Dean had only had four years. Dean had gone to Hell for him. He could do this.

"Yes," Sam said.

"Excuse me?" This time it was Chuck. His mouth fell open, and he stared, wide-eyed, at Sam. "What about the sugar?"

Michael just stared at him a moment, his lips slowly lifting into the ghost of a smile. "No."

"What do you mean, no? Isn't this what you guys have been waiting for? For the perfect vessel?"

"I do not need a perfect vessel," Michael said complacently. "Not until my brother does, anyway. And if I accept you, well. . .there is not even the remotest possibility that your brother will say yes to Lucifer. Which means no Apocalypse."

"I thought you didn't want the Apocalypse," Sam protested. Things were swinging wildly out of focus, here. "I thought you don't want the human race destroyed."

Michael shook his head, the smile still on his borrowed lips. A wind blew through the suburban streets. As if everything weren't messed up enough, Sam noticed the car parked just across the road. A young couple was entangled in the front seat.

"What I want," Michael said tightly. "Is my brother back. And I will do anything, _anything_ to get him back. Including fighting in the Apocalypse."

Huh. Sam bit his cheek. Game-changer, there. The man, or maybe the woman, in the parked Camry moved too much, hit the horn. A loud prolonged beep plagued the streets, followed by a giggle, and silence again.

"Couldn't you just. . .accept him back?" Sam asked dully, remembering Dean and his own Reconciliation. It hadn't been easy, sure, had taken. . .God, _years_ to get back to where they'd been. It had taken the breaking of Seals, the release of Lucifer, and the vision of a horrible future, but they'd gotten back together. They hadn't needed to destroy the world to do it.

"Only my Father can do that," Michael said bitterly. Light was pouring out even stronger from all of Reilly's features. His fingers had started to glow, and the air around him began to sizzle.

"Um. . .Sam. . ." Chuck was dancing a little at his side. "I think he's gonna blow. Should I go get the sugar?"

"Yeah," Sam said. "Yeah, you go do that."

Chuck scampered off, leaving Sam alone with the lighthouse that had once been Father Reilly. And the sluts in the parked car.

"So get your angel buddies together," Sam said hopelessly. "And go _find_ your Dad. You don't have to destroy our planet to do that!"

"You think we haven't looked?" Michael asked. He stepped forward. Father Reilly's face started to melt off in the brilliance. "We _looked_. We looked for centuries. We've been looking ever since we realized something was wrong when he let his own Son die on a cross. Raphael has given up. Gabriel is broken. Lucifer is in Hell, is himself _Hell_. So yes, Samuel Winchester, we have looked. And we have failed.

"This is our last chance. If our Father does not come with the Final Apocalypse, then He is gone. And if He is gone, then there is no reason for His creation to continue."

Sam gaped, because it was all just too damn familiar. The youngest son, cast out and ostracized. The eldest, the good soldier, looking and searching for a father who had seemingly abandoned him. Everything ending in fire, so they could go on searching together. . .he shook his head. Coincidence. It had to be coincidence.

One of Father Reilly's arms fell off, replaced by a dazzling limb. Sam looked away, half-blinded. Behind the priest's back he could see the shadows of wings, massive enough that they blocked out all light behind him. There wasn't much time left.

"Then why us?" Sam asked desperately. "Why not someone else from our line?"

Michael frowned. "Why do you ask?"

"I'm trying to _help_ you," Sam said. "I want you to find God. He's the only one who can stop this. . .this _insanity_. So just. . .please."

"It is not just blood," Michael said. His voice was growing in volume, in pitch. Sam covered his ears, could still hear the angel's voice echoing in his head. "There must be. . .room. . .within the vessel. Empty space that we can fill."

Sam fell to his knees. Father Reilly's other arm fell. Sam closed his eyes. His head felt like it was about to burst.

"What do you mean, emptiness?" he gasped. When the angel answered, it was no longer in words, but in feelings, images, pain pain pain.

Flashes of Bobby, his father, his mother, his own face, Dean's face, one interposed upon the other. A fire. Dad dying. Bobby dying. His own mouth, opening, closing, saying "yes."

And then the flashes, again. Bobby, his father, his mother, his own face, Dean's face, Jess's face. A fire. Dad dying. Bobby dying. Dean, on the ground, pale and gasping.

Warmth and guilt and loyalty and painpainpainpainpain.

Sam couldn't help it. He opened his eyes, stared straight at the angel, felt all sight leaving him, felt his head exploding into a thousand little pieces.

"Love," he said desperately. "You need people who can't feel love."

The world went black.


	25. Chapter 25

**AN: Jeez. My first ever trozo written from an angelic point of view. Which I'm never doing again. HARD!!!!!**

Raphael existed in no time and everytime. He walked down the streets of Jerusalem and greeted the apostles. He walked through the Garden of Eden, conversed with Adan, admired Eve's garden. He inhabited Pope John Paul, invoked infallibility. He marched with Martin Luther. Both Martin Luthers. He stood over the child's cradle, listened to the young woman humming Billy Joel. He was engaged in Jerusalem oil. He flew among the stars. His Father was gone. He shook Jesus' hand. He started a fire.

"_Are you certain this is the one?" His brother, Michael, standing beside him. His brother, Michael, in another time, another place. They looked at the baby together. His green eyes, so bright a color in so young a face, opening and closing. The baby screamed._

_ Another baby, blue-eyed this time, as babies should be, silent and curious._

_ "Are you certain this is the one?"_

_ Green eyes and blue eyes, and a bloodline running so strong that Raphael could almost taste it. Touched the green-eyed one._

_ "I am certain," he said. Another time, another flash, and a demon walking in, comfortable and confident. Up the stairs. To the cradle._

_ "Do we stop him?" Raphael asked._

_ "No," the answer from his elder brother. _

_ The woman, slashed through the middle, jerked to the ceiling. The babe, splattered with blood from above and Below._

_ "Burn it," his brother said, and disappeared. Raphael lit the ceiling, summoned the father, the green-eyed brother._

_ The flames licked higher, consumed the woman, mouth open in a silent scream. The boy watched the fire. It ate his own heart. Raphael grabbed a flame, a single, docile strand of fire. Inserted it into the boys heart. Let it burn._

_ A vampire, scenting blood._

_ "Do we help?"_

_ Michael again, "no."_

The soldiers had him, lashed him to a tree, paraded him through the town. Rivulets of blood ran down his side, mixed with sweat. Raphael supposed that it must burn the fragile human frame. The people parted before him, as the Sea had parted for Moses.

"He will stop this," Michael, confident and serene as always. "It is in his plan. It must be."

_"You have hurt him," a new angel, young, Raphael did not know him. He was young, his wings short, white, tinged with brilliant blue electricity. He was young, staring at his charge, curled in a ball around a younger brother, crying out for their father to stop this, to save them._

_ "This one can not be hurt," Raphael, in response._

_ "This is wrong."_

_ "This is God's will," Raphael said. God was dead._

They took his clothing from him, strapped him, wrists, ankles, throats. Drove nails through delicate hands and feet. Broke bones, forced a crown, heavy with thorns down upon his head. A wicked mockery of advent wreath. He screamed, and blood bubbled in his mouth, delicate pink frost.

"This cannot be our Father's will," Raphael. Michael, stoic, calm, confident.

"It must be. We must wait."

_Older now, green eyes hooded but still hopeful. A drive in a beat-up car to a busstop. Money exchanged, a brief hug._

_ "Bitch."_

_ "Jerk."_

_ "Study hard, Sammy."_

_ A bus, pulling away. The green eyes wet now, filled with tears._

_ "You have hurt him."_

_ "It is necessary."_

_ "Would you break him? Is this what God wants?"_

_ God is dead._

He is upright now, but he will not die. He calls out forgiveness and absolution. There is nobody beside him. Rain falls. Angels watch.

"My God, my god, why have you forsaken me?"

The skies part. Lightning. Surely now. Surely now.

_A mistake, somehow. Years of traveling, ricocheting around, fire, not enough to stamp out love. He'd escaped. Escaped father, brother, hunting, Lucifer. Raphael followed him through college, followed him into the girls' loft, into the jewelry store. Not empty enough, not this one. Blue eyes still full of hope, innocence. Spared by a brother's love. Not enough._

_ The car left. Raphael moved._

_ "She has done nothing wrong." A weak protest, but Michael is there._

_ "No."_

_ Another fire. Raphael waits for the boy to awaken, blue eyes to shine. Lets him see the burn. Takes another tendril of fire, inserts it into the boys heart. Lets it burn._

A soldier comes up, now, takes pity on the screaming man. Breaks both knees. Limbs sag. Chest collapses.

God is not coming.

"This is not right," says Raphael.

"Let us wait."

They wait three days.

_Two years and things are good, set. The demon gathers them to him. A knife in the back. A buried box. A sold soul. Good._

God has still not appeared. The Son dwells below, intercepted before he returned to heaven's fold. Raphael goes down, battles past three-headed dogs, licking flames. They do not touch him. His stomach twists. It smells rotten down here, empty. In Heaven there is still the feel of the Father. On Earth there are echoes. Below, there is only emptiness.

He finds him, curled in on himself, rocking.

_"He's going to die!" Blue electricity, white wings puffed up. _

_ "That is God's will."_

_ God is dead._

Raphael grabs him, by both hands, pulls him erect. His body is untouched. Lucifer has not tortured him. His brother beside him, wings blackened by the soot of hell, eyes glistening, ruby still. He is still beautiful, even touched by darkness.

"I would never harm my Father's Son," he says, fervently, desperately.

"Then why have you taken him?"

"I pray," Morningstar says. "Every night, every morn, every moment of every day. I pray. I beg forgiveness. Why won't he answer me?"

Raphael takes the mans hands and raises him to the surface.

_Hounds, tearing flesh from bone from sinew, from blood. The twisted deal sending a pure soul, a righteous soul below._

_ "How is this God's will?" the wings drooping now, the electricity faded._

_ "Go down and save him."_

_ "How can I? Angels may not go Below."_

_ "Yes. They can."_

_ Blue eyes, tinged by black. Emptying with every month. One month. Dead mother. Two months. Dead father. Three months. Dead fiancée. Four months_. _Dead brother. Empty hard. The flames have nothing left to burn. They die._

The Son walks the land, for forty days, and then sends himself to Heaven. Raphael and Michael watch him go.

"Where is our Father?" Michael, not so confident now, not so calm.

"I do not know."

"We must find him."

_When he sees the youth again, the sapphire electricity, there is a difference. The wings, no longer white, burned black by the soot of absence, of dirt, of betrayal and guilt and emptiness. _

_ "The righteous man rides out of Hell."_

_ So. The Apocalypse begun._

They search for centuries, for millennium. They search for 2000 years and find nothing. Emptiness. Absence. When they return to earth, they cannot feel even the echoes of his presence. Raphael coughs in the acrid taste.

"Why has He left us?"

Michael, short. "If we cannot find Him, then we will bring Him to us."

_Green eyes haunted, now. Blue eyes darkened. Hearts empty, nothing left to feed the flame. Love taken, twisted, betrayed, destroyed. Two empty husks. The fight lives on, the souls still clean. The perfect vessels._


	26. Chapter 26

Sam woke up in a sea of pain. He was gasping, drowning in it, screaming for it to stop. No sounds, however, just the feel of somebody's hand on his shoulder, pushing him, shoving him. Sputtering. He dragged in a breath. His lungs didn't work. Expelled it.

"Sam, come on, Sammy, wake up!"

He remembered his eyes burning, remembered his head falling apart. Remembered a pillar of light. He wondered if he would ever see again.

"I am so sorry, Dean."

"For what? How is this your fault? Sammy. . .don't you die on me, Sam, don't you dare!"

He opened one eye. He thought it did. Only blackness. And then. . .fuzziness. . .and then eyelashes, framing worried green. He groaned. It hurt a little less than before.

"Sam! Thank God!"

The other eye opened. Eyelashes framing sapphire blue. Another groan.

"What happened?"

Sam pushed himself up. It hurt much less, now. Just a pounding in his chest, behind his eyes, his lower back. He swallowed, hard, harsh. Coughed twice. Nothing rattled.

"I don't know, you tell me," Dean sat back now, concern still written across his face. Sam sighed, lifted one arm experimentally. It didn't hurt anymore. Rubbed his face.

"I talked to Michael," he said.

"I'm sorry, Sam," even Chuck looked contrite. "I couldn't find any sugar."

Dean looked at the prophet like he was crazy (which, Sam reasoned, he very well might have been.)

"Why?" Dean asked. Sam shook his head.

"I had some questions," He said. Remembered something Cas had said just a few days ago. Turned to look at the former angel (crick in his neck – ow).

"Did you know?" he asked. The angel cocked his head, a befuddled look on his features. "Did you know that being a vessel isn't just about blood. Did you know about love?"

Castiel let out a long, slow breath. Nodded.

"What?" Dean glanced back and forth between the two. "What are you talking about? Sam, did that douche addle your brains, or something? Make some Sam Soup out of your head?"

"The fires," Sam sighed. He leaned forward, put his head in his hands. "They started the fires. So that we couldn't love."

"What kind of bullshit are you spewing?" Dean looked angry now. Cas just looked sad.

"Yes," He said. "I am sorry. Love comes from God, is God. A human possessing great love makes a poor vessel – he is already too full to let in an angel."

"Bull," Dean spat. "I call foul. We know how to love, don't we Sam?"

Sam considered for a moment. He knew that he could feel love, still, could love people since the fire. He knew he was still open to it, wondered how the angels couldn't know that. But Dean. . .when Sam thought about it, he couldn't think of a single person that Dean had loved since that first fire.

Bobby, Sam, Dad. That had been Dean's life. All three people he'd known from before.

There had been Cassie, but look how willing he'd been to leave her.

Ben and his mom.

Anna, though he'd had no problem getting rid of her, either.

So, Sam thought, maybe Dean would make the perfect vessel. The only one he had left was Sam.

"Not lust, Dean," it was Cas who had the courage to say the words. "Not a fling with a woman. Long, heaven-enduring love."

A glimmer of an idea had formed in Sam's head. Granted, his last plan hadn't gone so well, with the nearly being smote by an angel. But this one. . .

The angels didn't really want the Apocalypse. They just wanted to find their Father.

"Cas," he said slowly. "Can angels feel love?"

The former angel looked at him. A long, steady look. Sam met it, blue eyes to hazel. Held it. Sank into the sapphire. He heard Dean's cough, but he said nothing.

"No," Cas said finally. "No. They are completely empty of love. Only God can fill them. That is why we are all . . .they are all. . .desperate to find him. To be full again."

Sam bit a lip. Had one question to ask, one last piece of the puzzle.

"When Anna fell, she was reborn as a human. She had no memory of being an angel. Why are you still. . .you?"

They didn't break eye contact. There was a power in this.

"Anna did not fall," Castiel said finally. "She pulled out her Grace. She landed on earth. She was still an angel. She never knew love."

But Cas had. Sam was sure of it.

"Okay," he said. "I know how to stop the Apocalypse."

"Really, college boy?" Dean raised an eyebrow. "Care to clue us in?"

Sam turned now, decided to try his newfound angel-trick on his brother. Locked eyes. Staredown.

"Do you trust me, Dean?"


	27. Chapter 27

**AN: The Penultimate chapter! GASP!!!!**

Chuck was not calm this time, when they walked outside. They ignored his squawks about sugar. Sam kicked his legs out, raised the gun to his head. Dean clutched the Colt, the useless, pointless, Colt. Cas held the knife. Sam didn't have the heart to tell them that this was a fight they wouldn't be able to win.

Cock the gun. Lightning flashed, but twice this time.

Two identical figures walked toward them. Sam recognized them. The last time they'd seen the tall, expressionless men had been with Famine. Reappropriated bodies. Recycling. Nice.

"Sam." He knew that it was Lucifer who spoke first, sense the silken smoothness in the voice. "Have you finally agreed to say yes?"

"Never, dipshit," Dean said, and pointlessly raised his gun. With a glare, Lucifer sent it skidding out of his hands, across broken pavement. Cas lifted the knife, but made no other move.

"I'm tired," Sam admitted. The truth now. They'd tried fighting, they'd tried denying what they both knew. It was time for just the truth. "I don't want to keep fighting. I want this all to end."

"Sam, what are you saying?" Dean asked. Hurt and betrayal dripping from his words. Sam couldn't turn around, couldn't see the injury in jade eyes. Tough love, he thought angrily.

"Say yes," Michael said now, stepping forward. "Say yes, so that your brother can say yes. End this."

Sam took a deep breath. He'd have to play this exactly right. Nothing could go wrong. Nothing. And yet, with the Winchester luck, somehow he knew that everything would. Go flying up in flames. Oh well. They were screwed anyway.

"I have a few conditions," Sam said. Lucifer nodded, patient as ever. Sam pointed back at Castiel.

"Make him an angel again."

Both Lucifer and Michael raised eyebrows at this, surprised. They turned, as one, identical bodies moving in unison. Identical squints. Identical harsh, surprised breaths.

"Castiel," Michael whispered. "How. . ."

"I have fallen," Castiel said lowly. Lucifer shook his head.

"You still possess your Grace," he said wonderingly. "How?"

But Castiel kept his lips pressed closely together.

"We. . .we cannot," Lucifer said, almost regretfully now. "He has become fully human. We cannot make humans into angels. We are not. . .we are not the same."

"Do not say yes, Samuel," Cas finally spoke. "They are trying to trick you."

Ah, the irony of that. Sam had to fight to keep from smiling.

"Okay, then, fair enough," Sam said. He turned to Michael then. "I don't want Dean to be your vessel," he said.

"Sam, stop," Dean was whispering now, desperately, somehow recognizing what was happening. Sorry, Dean, he thought reflexively.

"Cas can do it," he said. "Angels can't feel love, right. Cas should be the emptiest vessel ever created. Use him."

Michael nodded, slowly. "Very well," he said.

"No!" It was too much for Dean. He grabbed the knife of out Cas' hand, lunged toward the angels. Almost negligently, Lucifer raised his hand, sent Dean's body flying into a near tree. A repeat of Carthage. Only this time Cas was present. He lunged, faster than a human could, slower than an angel.

No slamming trees for him. Michael held him up, lifted a hand, brought the former angel to a dangling position, two feet off the ground. Dean pulled himself to his feet.

"I have another proposition for you," the former angel said. His feet jerked, twice, held still. Both angels turned to look at him, interested. "I know where the antichrist is."

Oh, _shit_. Sam had not reckoned on that, had not remembered the little boy that he and Dean had nearly had to hunt. That could ruin. . .correction, would ruin everything.

"Cas, no," he whispered, desperately. Dean was limping over, close enough to hear everything now.

"The AntiChrist?" Lucifer's eyes lit up. Of course. Half-demon, half-human. . .he would make a better vessel than Sam ever would.

"You use the boy, and myself as vessels," Castiel said slowly. "You leave Sam and Dean alone. And you fight the final battle far from the humans. You do not need to murder them to summon Father."

"What do you think, brother?" Michael asked. Sam shook his head, furiously. No, no, no. This was _not_ was supposed to happen. They were supposed to stop the Apocalypse, not permit it. Dean's face was white, pained. He couldn't even speak anymore.

"I can accept these conditions," Lucifer said.

"As can I," Michael agreed.

Castiel took a deep breath. He squirmed, just a little, in the grip of the angel. His blue eyes searched the night darkness, frantically. Sam knew what he was looking for, knew the moment that sapphire met jade. Dean lurched forward, his face a desperate plea.

"Don't you do it, Cas," he pleaded. "Please. Please. Please."

"Dean, I have given everything for you," Cas said. "Let me give you this."

"No," Dean was desperate now. Tears welled up in Sam's eyes. This was so wrong, so wrong. . .

He had reached the angel now. In apparent sympathy, Michael relaxed his grip. Cas' feet touched the ground, and he turned his entire body toward the hunter.

"It is what you have always wanted," Cas said. He turned to the two angels, opened his mouth.

But it was Dean who spoke. It was Dean's voice that broke the blackness and sent the world into an explosion of light.

"Yes," he said. "Yes."


	28. Chapter 28

**AN: The end! For serious! There's a little epilogue, but this is about it. So thanks for joining me on this loooooong ride!**

Chuck was not a hero. Chuck was really fucking far from being a hero. But he thought he'd been getting better, since he'd met the Winchesters. And he'd felt good, really good the night before, when he and Sam had stood down Michael. Well, when Sam had stood down Michael. He'd been looking in the cupboards for sugar.

And that had been pretty defiant, too, writing that false prophecy. Going against heaven. That was pretty darn heroic, too.

Still, when the Winchesters had said that they were summoning Lucifer _and_ Michael, he'd just about wet his pants. Because that was one showdown that he _really_ didn't want to be a part of.

Not that he had a choice. Not since he was their newest little angel-summoning toy. He was getting really tired of having guns pointed at his head.

The instant the two men had appeared – correction, two really creepy men, in identical suits and expressions – he'd run away.

More specifically, he'd run into his house, up the steps to his bedroom, and cowered under his bed.

He waited for the Apocalypse. He figured it had to happen soon – the devil and angel together, their meatsuits waiting, and besides, he'd seen it. He hadn't told the Winchesters, but he'd already felt that compulsion to write. He'd seen the play –out. He knew the plan that Sam had – trick Lucifer into trying to get in his body, only to find it was too full of love – then have a nice little chat with the two angels.

It would never work. Not in a million years. Chuck knew, that, too.

No, what would happen was that Lucifer would try to force his way in, wouldn't be able to. Would back out, but too late. Dean would have seen the submission, would have said yes to Michael, who promptly would have smote Lucifer on his way out.

The whole thing was going to end with Sam obliterated on the ground, his head a mass of brains and other. . .stuffings. . .and Dean as a gibbering idiot left on the side of the sidewalk.

And then, Chuck was pretty sure, there would be trumpets soundings, earthquakes happening, the weirdo chick next door dying, and overall the end of the world. He thought there was a meteor on its way, too.

He expected all of this to happen in about five minutes. Though, when he thought about it, his bed probably wasn't much protection from an asteroid.

When nothing happened, not in five minutes, not in ten, he snuck out from under the bed. His fingers twitched. He wanted to write again. But his brain was blank. Why was his brain blank?

He crept down the stairs, peered out the window. He couldn't hear anything. Maybe there was no noise? Maybe he'd gone deaf. How did the world end? Not with a bang, but with a whimper?

He'd assumed that the world was going to end in fire, hell and brimstone. Maybe not. Maybe it ended in ice, everything freezing over. Including his ears. He stuck his pinkie in the left one, wiggled it around. Couldn't feel anything blocked. He opened the front door. Wind gushed by. Oh. Sound. Right. Not deaf, then.

They were all still standing out there, Lucifer and Michael in their creepy expressionless suits, Dean and Sam looking banged up and scared, and their angel friend floating in the air.

Wait a second. . .angel friend. . .Chuck frowned. Where had he been, in his vision of the future?

Sam hadn't said yes, yet. Chuck could tell. Mostly because the creepy Blues Brother twins were still glowing, clearly still possessed by a pair of angelic hitmen.

"Yes," Dean said, to Chuck's ears, sudden and without precedent. "Yes."

And holy FUCK but that wasn't how it was supposed to go at all? Dean was _never_ supposed to say yes. It didn't fit with anything. Chuck as Prophet knew it wasn't supposed to happen, and Chuck as Writer knew it wasn't supposed to happen. It was completely out of character. Apropos of nothing. Deus ex machina, only the deus in this case was supposedly still missing. Chuck crept forward a little.

Goonie on the right glowed, brilliant for a moment and then. . .exploded. The glow shifted to Dean. Light poured out of his eyes, his nose. He stood up straight, dropped the sling. Before Chuck's eyes, the wounds on his face healed over.

"Shit," he said. Sam was a sobbing mess on the ground. That, Chuck thought with some satisfaction, made sense. He'd never been good at keeping emotions inside, and he had to be feeling pretty guilty and useless at the way his plan had backfired. Castiel stood, swaying, a lost expression on his face.

Dean as Michael turned to Goonie 2. "Summon Raphael." He said.

"Do it yourself," Goonie 2 said, sounding almost petulant. "You have your vessel. You do it."

Dean as Michael swelled up , and even more golden light poured out from his skin. Huh, Chuck thought. That was strange. He'd thought that angels didn't glow when they were in vessels that fit well. Lucifer rolled his eyes, lifted his head and

Holy FUCK THAT HURT! Chuck could feel his very being pulled apart, loose molecules. His ears were bleeding, he just knew it, they were bleeding, and this was why he had never wanted to be a hero, this was why he had wanted to be under his bed, this was why

"DO YOU WANT THE PAIN TO END?"

Yes, he thought, babbling incoherently. He didn't know where the voice came from. He didn't care.

Yesyesyesyesyesyesyes

And. . .oh, that felt kind of nice, a warmth suffusing him. A little tingly, a little. . .oh, this was not so nice, now, he was getting shoved back, compressed, and it didn't hurt exactly, but he was being folded into weirdo little origami pieces and his brain was so tiny and what the

Raphael swatted irritably at a dust mote in front of him. He could still hear the tinny presence of the prophet inside him. He was a weak vessel. He would not stay long. He walked outside to greet his brothers.

"Why did you summon me?" he asked.

Michael turned to look at him, and there was anger in the angel's face. Intense anger. Angel-smiting anger.

"You set the fires."

"Yes, of course."

"You brought the fires into their hearts."

"Yes, of course."

"So why," Michael ground out, his teeth gnashing inside his vessel's body. Raphael admired it. Michael had always had good taste. It was a very beautiful vessel, particularly with angelic golden light pouring out of it. "Why is there too much feeling in here for me to fit?"

Raphael frowned. Shook his head. "I burned their hearts out," he said. "I don't know why. . ."

One of the mudmonkeys was scrambling to his feet, his face a mess of snot and tears. "Don't you dicks even think before you do anything?" he asked. "You can't just. . .just. . .tear people's hearts out. We still feel. He still loved, even after your fire."

Raphael turned his gaze upon the mudmonkey. This was attractive as well. Ah. The mark of Lucifer. Of course. His brothers really did have excellent taste. Brothers. . .he turned to look at them. Lucifer. Michael. Raphael. All together, again, in one place. He'd never thought.

The second mudmonkey stood as well. There was no liquid on his face. Just as well. There was, however, something familiar about him. . .Eyes latched on his, and Raphael started. Blue electricity.

"Please," the mudmonkey said, his voice broken, though his face looked carved as granite. "Let him be. Take me, instead."

"Or me," snotface said desperately. "Just let Dean be okay."

"Self-sacrificing twits," A fourth voice, and Raphael turned to see Gabriel, dressed in a strange, horse-faced girl. Gabriel shrugged apologetically.

"Sorry," he said. "It was the best I could find."

He sauntered forward, Gabriel's arrogance shining through the plain girl's countenance.

"Brother," Michael inclined his head. "I thought that you had fallen."

"No," Gabriel ignored Raphael, walked up to Lucifer, placed his hands gently on his brother's face. "I thought I would never see you all together, again."

The mudmonkeys were still making sorrowful, weeping sounds. Raphael considered silencing them, permanently. Except that the one had the mark of Lucifer on it, and he would not harm a brother's vessel. Even if that brother had betrayed all of heaven.

"So this is it," Michael said. "The Apocalypse."

Gabriel chuckled. "In the middle of the suburbs. How wildly ironic."

"It won't work," the taller mudmonkey said. "You're not going to find God by starting the Apocalypse. Besides. Babylons still lives."

"She's just inside," Raphael said, the echoes of the annoying prophet ringing in the back of his head. "Easy enough to smite her. Brother?" he looked at Michael. "Shall I?"

Michael shook his head, glanced at the sniveling mudmonkey. "How," he said. "Do you propose we find our Father, then?"

The mudmonkey looked up. "When our father disappeared, I thought he'd just abandoned us," it said. "I thought nothing of it. But Dean was sure that something had happened, that he was in trouble. So we looked."

Raphael was bored by the mudmonkeys story. He glanced toward his brothers, asking silent permission to smite. Michael, however, had focused all of his attention.

"It turned out that he wasn't in trouble," the mudmonkey said. "Or at least. . .not ordinary trouble. But he'd been trapped into this ring of destiny that we all. . .the thing is, I don't think God is just wandering. I think he's in trouble. I think he hasn't come, because he _can't_ come. I have to believe that."

Michael grunted. The second mudmonkey reached under its shirt, pulled out a medallion on a string.

"Here," it said, holding it out. "This will help you to find our Father."

Michael reached out, clasped it wonderingly. Raphael snarled. To think. A mudmonkey, possessing such a thing. In the hand of the mudmonkey, however, it shone, dimly, barely, but shining. The moment it fell into Michael's possession the light went out. He lifted it overhead. It shone a bit more.

"Marvelous," Lucifer whispered.

"You can go," mudmonkey one whimpered. "Dean couldn't find Dad on his own. But when we were together we found him. Maybe it's the same for you. You have to search together. All four of you."

Michael nodded slowly. Raphael turned. Lucifer wore a distinctly downturned expression on his vessel's generic face.

"The things I have done. . ." Lucifer said. "Only God can forgive me. I know this."

Gabriel, amazingly, was the one with a response. He leaned forward, placed a chaste kiss on his brother's lips.

"I forgive you," he said huskily. Turned to Raphael. "Can you forgive me for leaving the hunt?"

Raphael felt something tugging him toward his brother. Leaned forward. Gentle kiss on the mouth.

"I forgive you," he said. Turned to Michael. "Can you forgive me for believing that Father is dead?"

Michael considered. One long, still moment. Leaned forward. Lips brushed. "I forgive you."

And the circle was complete, Raphael thought. Until Michale turned to Lucifer.

"Can you forgive me for not rescuing you?" he asked, his voice low.

"I forgive you," Lucifer gasped. And now, Raphael knew, as something blossomed within him. Now the circle was complete.

"Thank you," Michael said, turning to the mudmonkeys. "We see, now, why our Father put so much love and trust into your kind. We will stop the Apocalypse."

"Though," Raphael added, not wanting to decide the stupid little mudmonkeys. "The last vestiges remain. Death walks free, still. Babylon lies still within that house."

"That's okay," Snotty mudmonkey said. He smiled a little, the rivers of tears falling around the outstretched mouth. "We can take care of that."

"Then we will leave you," Michael said. He leaned forward, put one hand on the head of the taller mudmonkey.

"You are wise, Samuel Winchester. Do not lose your wisdom in your grief."

Turned next to the shorter mudmonkey, with the electric presence and the absent black wings. "We will miss you, Brother Castiel," he said. "May you never lose your Grace."

Michael unfurled his wings, those vast, glittering golden wings. Beside him, Gabriel's emerald wings covered the sky. Raphael let out a sigh of relief as silver flowed from his back, released by the obstruction of his vessels limited body. Lucifer waited a moment later. Ruby filled the sky.

And so, hand in hand with his brothers, Raphael left earth for the first time in centuries.


	29. Epilogue

It hadn't been easy, salting and burning Jenine, even as she struggled and screamed, first in one guise, then another. Sam winced when the glasses appeared, and he thought he would lose Cas when the scuffed boots appeared. Somehow they managed it, though, and shoveled what remained of her dessicated corpse under the ground.

Finished, Sam brushed sweat away from his eyes, aware that he was probably leaving a streak of dirt in its place. Chest heaving, he turned to the former angel, a tired smile on his face.

"So," he said. "What do you think of your first salt and burn?"

Cas raised flat blue eyes. "It seems unnecessarily loud," he said simply.

Sam laughed, shrugged. "Yeah, well, welcome to the life of a hunter. Come on, let's go get something to drink."

They drove to the first bar they could find, poorly lit and filled with smoke. Sam parked the Impala far from the entrance, and they walked in, side by side. Sam ordered a beer, Castiel a simple Coke.

After the drink they hustled some pool, made some cash to pay for another night at the motel. Drove home in near silence, Jeff Buckley on the radio.

Sam had known that it would be hard, after the Apocalypse. He hadn't been stupid, hadn't assumed that the world would just go back to normal. They'd defeated Babylon, but Death was still stalking the world. And from the way Cas kept looking up at the sky, Sam had the definite impression that a hunt for God was on it's way.

"Did you speak truth?" Castiel had asked him that night, even as they buried the pathetic smears that were all that was left of poor Becky and Chuck. If ever there had been inappropriate vessels for archangels, it had been those two, burned nearly to a crisp. Sam felt a little guilty about that. Becky had been a sweet girl, a dedicated fan and Chuck. . .well, Chuck had been a friend.

They walked inside, quiet and pensive, still trembling from the events. The both avoided the room in which they had laid Dean's body – still breathing, heart still beating, but no sign of waking. Sam knew that they shouldn't hope for him to wake. He'd been an imperfect vessel, after all. It was a miracle that he hadn't imploded like those who came before.

"About God?" Sam nodded. "Yeah. I can't believe that He's just alive and well, watching all of this. I don't know what happened to Him, but. . .yeah. I think He needs help."

Castiel had paused a moment, seemed to take it in. Finally said, in a low voice "I cannot aid in their search. I cannot help anyone."

Sam had put a hand on the angel's shoulder, amazed that he was comforting Cas for once. "You're helping me," he said honestly. "Just by being here. No matter what happens with Dean, I know I'll get through it, this time. Because I have you."

Cas smiled at that, tremulous, teary, but smiling. For that one night he dropped his mask. Almost unvoluntarily, it seemed, his gaze drifted toward Dean's silent room.

"How did you know?" he'd asked. "How did you know that you would make imperfect vessels"

"Because of you," Sam had said honestly. "Because I knew that, somewhere along the road, you'd become my friend. And if I loved you, then obviously Dean loved you, too." Another beat and a pause. Sam squeezed the unresponsive shoulder. "He said yes to save you, you know."

"I know," Cas had said.

And so a day had passed. One day, being careful to stay together, so that even when Jenine did come down the stairs, they could stand her. She was in scuffed boots, of course. Sam clutched Cas' hands, thought _it's not him_ knew that Cas knew it too.

A vetala's power, it turned out, was significantly weakened when that which was most desired laid just next door.

So in the morning they'd loaded up the Impala. Dean laid out in the back, Jenine next to him. Headed to a motel, dropped Dean off, and then driven to the cemetery. Jenine had been extremely complacent about everything, even helping to dig her own grave. She'd lost it, only then, begging not to be sent to Hell, not to be burned, alternating between Dean's voice and Jess's until her bones collapsed in fine ash.

And so back to the motel. Not expecting anything. Not waiting for anything. Death could wait another day, Sam thought. The world could wait another day. It had been a hard week. They'd earned a rest.

So the opened the motel room, not expecting anything. Certainly they did not expect to see a pudgy, blue-eyed, balding midget in a cheap suit.

"Zachariah," Cas said, bowing his head to the other angel, after first glancing toward Dean's still prone body. The angel stood up, spread his hands out, as if in supplication.

"Well," he said, a little laugh in his voice. "You boys did it. You stopped the Apocalypse. You said you were going to do it, and you do. I just came to throw in the towel. We're taking off."

"We?" Same asked, frowning.

"The angels," Zachariah said. "Sure, the big four have already popped off, but we're going to help, too. We all want the same thing, after all."

"Best of luck," Castiel said flatly. "We will pray for you."

"That's all that you wanted?" Sam asked suspiciously. "Just to come and say good-bye?"

"And to apologize," the angel said. "Which we angels probably don't do as often as we should. We really fucked up you boys' lives, and, as it turns out, we didn't even have to."

"Yeah," Sam agreed. He sat down wearily. Probably he should be pissed off. Probably he should be raging at the angel. It's what Dean would have done. But mostly he was just very, very tired, and very, very sad, and wanted it to be over. Wanted it to be just he and Cas on the roads. Saving people, hunting things. The family business.

"Well, look, just saying. . .I'm offering an olive branch here," Zachariah held out a hand. Sam refused to take it. "Fine," Zachariah said. "I'll just leave the olive branch on that bed over there."

Sam thought that he saw the angel smile, as he pointed at the worn comforter on which Dean lay. He might have just imagined it, though, as the man disappeared in a flapping of wings.

"Well," Sam said, standing up. "We'd better get some sleep. Hit the road early tomorrow, find Death before he ganks the rest of the world. Cas? You want first shower?"

Cas, however, had sat down beside Dean, rested his hand on the unconscious man's forehead. Sam made his way to the shower. Clearly the former angel needed a moment.

Before he'd even taken off his shirt, however, before he'd turned the water on, he heard a crashing sound from the room next door, a startled explanation. Honed reflexes kicking into overdrive, he dove back.

"Cas! What is it!"

"Samantha, put the gun down."

Impossibly, it was Dean who spoke, one eye just barely slitted open, staring across the room at his bewildered brother. Cas was pulling himself off the floor, where he had clearly fallen a moment ago.

Sam just smiled, tried to pretend it was nothing. Because really, in three days, he'd dealt with Dean's death three times. Enough was enough.

"Sleeping beauty finally decided to wake up?" he asked.

"Shut up, bitch."

"You shut up, jerk."

Castiel had finally finished standing up. He leaned over, engulfed Dean in a bone-crushing hug. Over the angels' back Dean raised both eyebrows, as though asking 'dude, what's up?' Sam just shrugged his shoulders. Cas released him, stood back.

"Sam and Dean Winchester," he said solemnly, looking back and forth between the two of them. "I love you." If his gaze lingered a little longer on Dean when he said it, nobody said anything.

Dean cleared his throat. "Look," he said. "I know you two are tired, but. . .I'll drive."

Sam smiled. Emotional moments, the surefire way to send Dean from a room. Dean, however, stopped at the door, clapped one hand on the doorframe, and swiveled around. "Don't take too long, bitch." Pause, beat. Dean turned to look Cas in the eye. "Dick," he said. A definite blush rose to his cheeks before he disappeared. A moment later heavy rock metal came blasting from outside, from the Impala no doubt.

Cas turned to Sam, a befuddled look on his face. "Why did Dean just insult me?" he asked.

Sam laughed. "He didn't," he said. "It's his way of saying, love you, too."

Cas didn't respond to that, though Sam was pretty sure that he saw smile curve the edges of the former angels mouth. Sam grabbed the two duffel bags he'd recently thrown on the ground, walked out the door.

One of the headlights was out on the Impala. Inside he could see the shadow of his brother, furiously playing air guitar. Behind him he felt the steady presence of a fallen angel.

It would be good to get back on the road again.


	30. Gaffs Author Notes

Gaff #1: The first rider of the Apocalypse rides a white horse. Dean drives a black Impala. What gives?

Ah, but Revelations only states what the horseriders head out on. Nowhere does it say "and so the first horseman galloped around Earth on his white steed." Did Dean leave Hell on a white steed? Sure, if by white you mean "pure and holy" and by steed you mean "Angel." After all, what could be more brimming with purity than an angel?

I was going to insert this into the story, explaining that Dean basically "rode" Castiel out of Hell, but there was never a smooth place to put it, and I refused to force it in. I did have an amusing little bit of dialogue,though, that would have gone something like this:

Dean frowned, clearly not understanding. Sam, on the other hand, understood the joke instantly, and had to fight down laughter as he turned to his dumbfounded brother.

"I think what he's saying" and then he couldn't hold it in, and one loud laugh escaped. "is that Anna isn't the only angel you rode."

Gaff #2: What happened to Detroit?

Oh, let me number the reasons I changed this. Number one, the future in "the End" was based upon a time in which Dean and Sam parted ways permanently. Now they're together. That invalidates the future to begin with. Then there are those who argue: the particulars don't matter, eventually they will end up in Detroit, and Sam will be pushed to say "yes".

To which I say: Baloney (balogna?). The future in "The End" was clearly Zachariah created. How do you know? you ask. Simple. Zachariah doesn't understand Dean, certainly not in the way that Gabriel has. Look at the episode "It's a Terrible Life" in which he tries to convince Dean that he is, at heart, a hunter. He sticks Sam in a low-level computer job (makes sense, since he thinks he's the anti-Christ: why not embarrass the guy a bit) and makes Dean a head honcho. Okay, that's fine. I can deal with that. But then he allows Sam everything that he has always had: psychic visions, work with a computer, friends, etc. From Dean, he strips him bare of _everything_: the Impala? Gone. The rock music? Gone. Food? Gone (though he does still manage to be seen eating/drinking/etc. many times – well done, crew!). Dean, who would never have the patience to be seated for long periods of time, staring at a computer screen, is supposed to believe that he does.

Yet, despite the fact that everything in Dean _should_ be rebelling, it is Sam who figures it out, Sam who first feels the wrongness, Sam who sets them back on the track to being hunters. Hunting is not as deeply ingrained in Dean as Zachariah might think.

Then, in the first episode this season, Zachariah tries to convince Dean to say yes by. . .menial torture? Please. Granted, he's learned a bit, first attacking Sam. This is, however, a time immediately after the brother's relationship has been tested more than ever before. Dean is hardly going to give up the entire world based upon his brothers _legs_ being broken. Notice the longest pause is when Bobby is threatened. By the time the threat is turned back to Sam, Dean has been so thoroughly whacked at that he's dug his heels in and is saying "no" just to say no. He's not considering consequences, not thinking about his brother. He's just focused on not giving in. Strike two.

So then we move to "the End." Dean insists that he would never become FutureDean. I have to agree. Not because FutureDean is a dick – that is very possible, and even probable. What is impossible to believe is that FutureDean is leading a group of people. IN 28 years, Dean has NEVER led ANYBODY. Can he take charge in a dangerous situation? Sure, no doubt, we've seen that. But in the end, the final hunt is always JUST HIM. Let's look at Dean's leadership record. About the first time we see him leading anything other than a woman (or one buddy) is Jus In Bello – you know, the AWESOME episode where they're finally captured by the hot FBI agent. Do Sam and Dean convince everyone to follow their plan? Sure. But who do they convince first? Hot FBI agent. Until he's in on it, they're just wallowing in a cell. Nobody buys their schtick, until hot FBI agent agrees. So who's really leading the charge? Hot FBI guy. "Good God Y'All"? Um, the demon-possessed lieutenant something or other whips the troops in the basement into shape. Dean and Ellen escape out a sideways shoot. People don't mind being RESCUED by Dean Winchester, but they don't FOLLOW him. And, let's be honest, he wouldn't want to LEAD them. He'll work with a partner, no problem. A future with him and a stoned Cas wandering around killing Croats? I buy it. Dean settled down with a group of girls and him the leader? Never in a million years.

Let's face it, the guy never plans. He runs into things half-assed and gets killed as often as not. There is no possibility that Dean ends up leading a resistance camp. Zachariah, who concocts the whole ridiculous thing, doesn't realize that is a basic impossibility.

So if FutureDean is an impossibility, and FutureCastiel kind of unlikely, then what about FutureSamLucifer? Yeah, you get my drift.

Gaff 3:

What's with Sam and his eternally sucky plans?

So, here's my thought. We know Sam is smart. He got a full ride to Stanford. He scored a 174 on the LSAT. Dude is a sub-genius. However, he's also a massive geek. Five dollars said he took as LSAT Prep Course and studied for it. Which doesn't take away from the smartness quotient, don't get me wrong. I took the test. 174 is awesome.

So Sam is traditionally smart. He studies hard, and it pays off, big time. Why does he do all the research? Because he's really good at it. He can think things through logically, have them make sense when they come off. Of course he would want to make plans. Smart people always do.

Dean, on the other hand, has a tendency to just run into things (see above: half-assed Dean). And yet, between the two, who has more success? The clearest example of the failing of planning running through my head comes in "The Rapture" when the boys tell Jimmy Novak, definitively, that they have a plan. Five minutes later they'd dragged in by demons. Great planning, boys.

Most of the time they don't plan. They grab a lot of equipment, and head in. Most of the time they come out alive.

Sam plans to use himself as bait against Bloody Mary. What happens? He starts bleeding out the eyes and needs his (planless) brother to save his sorry ass.

Sam works out a plan to stop Meg. What happens? They get attacked by daeva, and end up pushing her out a window.

Sam plans on hanging out at a werewolves, keeping her awake all night so she doesn't kill anyone. He ends up shooting her.

Sam plans endlessly during his pathetic Groundhog's day. Dean dies repeatedly.

Sam plans to take Dean to a scary Frankenstein doctor. Scary Frankenstein doctor straps down Sammy.

Sam plans to turn their halfbrother into a third Winchester. The halfbrother tries to EAT HIM.

Sam plans to kill Lilith. . .and unleashes LUCIFER.

I rest my case.

Sam is really smart. Nonetheless, there is no way to plan for the Supernatural. Thus, Sam's plans suck.

Gaff 4:

Why do you make Dean so stupid so often?

Number one: I do not think that Dean is stupid. In fact, in my humble opinion, I would say that Dean is actually _gifted_. Sam might be the traditionally smart one: Dean might actually have a higher IQ.

Hold on now: think about it. Dean has a number of random skills. He's a gifted mechanic, a terrific conman (see: credit card scams, hustling scams, staying out of prison when local police AND FBI are on your tail), handy with an autopsy (though apparently Sam learned more in bio class), great with guns, a skilled fighter, apparently has entire sections of the Bible memorized (see: Wormwood and Death), knows every pop culture reference _ever_, exhibits random "intelligence" (see: Kerouac) and knows far more about supernatural creatures than any person should.

Now, sure, it might not seem like much compared to Sammyboy, but consider also: you _know_ Sam is a geek who liked school, did his homework, and studied. Dean? Spends his free time in bars and fornicating. Or, you know, taking care of his whiny little brother.

However, like many gifted people, Dean has some drastic shortcomings. Number one: when he decides something is true (or not) he sticks by it stubbornly, because he's usually _right_. See also: Disbelief in God, insistance on things that are _seen_ despite the fact that he works with ghosts.

He has decided the Cas is his emotionless angel buddy. So does he notice that emotionless angel buddy has a crush on him? Of course not. Does he pay attention to all of the particulars of every case? Of course not. Does he want to sit down with Sam and plan things out? Of course not. Does that make him stupid? No.

After all, he figures out that there is something wrong with "heaven" before Sam does. He intuits that Babylon would head to Vegas (yay prostitution), and yes, he even figures out, along with Sam, that the best place to summon an archangel is Chuck's.

So is Dean stupid? Not in my opinion. Does he act stupid? Oh yes.

Gaff 5:

You claim to write canon. So what's with the Cas/Dean shipping?

I would like to point out: there is no shipping. Does Cas love Dean? Yes. Does Dean reciprocate that love? Absolutely not. Nor will he. Ever. In my opinion.

Does Cas love Dean in a traditional, couples sense? I don't know. I think that it is clear that Cas loves Dean, very deeply, and feels very connected to him. Is he "in love" with Dean? At this point, in canon, no. In my opinion, he's not. But _any_ love to an angel, that isn't love of the Father, must be a pretty powerful thing. It might just be brotherly love, that Cas doesn't quite understand yet.

Put quite simply: Without some DRASTIC changes, I can't see Cas and Dean ever being "Together." That being said. . .I think they're adorable. (If interested in this, read my story "Freaky Friday" in which I find a way for Dean and Cas to be together. It's a little ridiculous, but, hey, what can you do.)

Gaff 6:

But Sam and Dean _DO _love!

I would argue that, with the exception of Castiel, neither of them _has_ loved since their respective fires. When you look at the people that Dean loves – and let's be honest, DeanLove = soul-selling, apparently: he loves his Dad, his brother, his mother, and Bobby. That's it. Does he care about Ellen/ Jo? Yes. Does he _love_ them? Eh. . .debateable. Look at how quickly he got over losing them. Compare this to the IMPALASMASH from his dad's death, the SOULLOSS of Sam's death, and the fact that, when approached by Zachariah, the threat to Bobby is the ONLY one he pauses for. All people that he knew _before_ the fire. (okay, maybe he didn't know Bobby. . .in my world he's Uncle Bobby!!!)

Cassie? Claims to have loved her. . .ditches her immediately after the RACISTTRUCK is taken care of. Ben and Ben's mom? Sayonara. The AngelChick that I don't like? Um. . .we all SAW him choose Cas over her.

Then there's Sam. That first fire didn't stop him from loving, at all (and thank goodness, since he was only SIX!!!) Which is why throughout the series we see Sam form mini-relationships with people. Dean's all "eh, she's hot, I'll tap that" but Sam . . . well, Sam had Jess. He had his buds in college. OBVIOUSLY he loved after that first fire. Luckily, there was a second one! And I don't think ANYONE would disagree that Sammy hasn't loved anyone new since that. I mean. . .unless you want to go with Ruby and I wouldn't touch THAT with a nine foot stick!

Let me be clear: they still loved ANYONE who made it into their hearts before the fires. They lost the capacity to GAIN love.

Or so the angels thought. Somehow, Cas squeezes his way in, becoming a third Winchester brother, of sorts. In the same way that the Winchesters wiggled into Castiel's heart, which should have held love ONLY for God.


End file.
